


Seconds to Sunrise

by CrumblingAsh



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Afghanistan, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Bruce, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Feels, Bruce Needs a Hug, Bruce is not this kind of doctor, Complete, Dom Tony, Dom/sub, Drug Use, First Meetings, Fucking Machines, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt Tony, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Muse Iron Man, Omega Bruce, Omega Tony, Omega Verse, One Shot Collection, Past Domestic Violence, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Tiberius Stone/Tony Stark - Freeform, Poor Bruce, Poor Tony, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Tony, Rape Aftermath, Safeword Use, Self-Hatred, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve Is a Good Bro, Sub Bruce, Team as Family, Tony Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Writer Bruce, Writer Tony, Writers, not soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-03 22:12:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Seven oneshots written for the prompts of sciencebrosweek on tumblr.</i>
</p><p>1. (College AU) Bruce found a way to cope, and Tony would never take that away.</p><p>2.  (Mob AU) He has a problem with Howard Stark.</p><p>3. (Dom/Sub AU)<i> "I'm right here, big guy."</i></p><p>4. (Age of Ultron) Before it became the Hulk's lullaby, it had just been a story Bruce had shared with Tony on a bad night.</p><p>5. (Soulmates/Not-Soulmates AU) “No. I’m doing this for <i>him</i>,” Tony sneers, because fuck Steve Rogers. “This will do a lot for <i>him</i>. People will stop looking at him funny, stop <i>judging</i> him. They won’t have a reason to ostracize him.”</p><p>6. (Omegaverse AU) Tony's suffers through four horrific heats between the nightmare of Afghanistan and the formation of the Avengers. Before Bruce. Bruce, who is just another omega, whose touch should not be more soothing than the help of an Alpha.</p><p>7. (Writer AU) “The story chooses its writer”. Bruce met Iron Man in fleeting pieces that he had to connect himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt: "ocean"**

* * *

 

_“Is it … do you think it’s an escape?” Bruce murmured, face pressed against Tony’s neck._

_“So what if it is?” He whispered back, trailing his fingers down Bruce’s spine, careful not to go too low. “So what? You just do what you need to do to get through this. Just do what you have to do to survive, Bruce. No one has the right to tell you what you can and can’t do to make it through this.”_

_“No fair, spitting my words back out at me.” Bruce pushed closer, lips grazing warmly against his skin – a tear of sadness bloomed in Tony’s chest._

_“Just reminding.”_

 

* * *

 

Bruce’s cat was already hissing when Tony stepped through the front door.

“Seriously?” He demanded at the onslaught of the feline fury that radiated from the animal’s green eyes, kicking the door closed behind him. The grocery bags groaned warningly in his arms. “You know, I have your food in here, you little shit, don’t think I won’t return it with that ungrateful attitude, because I will. I will walk all the way back to the store and return it for _my_ money, which I spent on _you_. Wanna reconsider with the hissing?”

The cat, nothing more than a lump of black fur with three legs, hissed again.

“… The only reason I haven’t thrown you out,” Tony huffed, dropping the bags on the counter with a paper-crinkling thud, “is because if I did, Bruce would be sad. That is the _only_ reason. Remember that, furball.”

The hissing swallowed down to a low, displeased growl that he rolled his eyes at as he turned back toward the door, making certain it had shut before reaching to secure each of the seven locks that kept the outside world from sneaking in.

_Clip, slide, drop; clip, slide, drop_ – both chains properly in place.

_Slide, click; slide, click; slide, click; slide, click_ – all four added deadbolts locked.

One little twist of the knob above the handle – _click_ – and the originally provided deadbolt was in place.

For a second, he stared – the locks looked strange against the bright wood of the door. Stainless steel with a black finish on each one, a bite of metal against the warmth of nature, a threat of protection against something that could be so easily broken. They were strong, industrial strength, not technically allowed if the wording of the lease was to be believed (not that he particularly cared), short of only what he could build, if asked (but weak, small, ineffective because they _weren’t_ what he could build – they weren’t enough. He could make something so much better-).

Fingers skimming down the handle, he turned away.

The blinds had been drawn, twisted as tightly as they could be to block as much of the afternoon sun as possible – their white glowed a dimmed rusted silver, like a pathetic attempt at a solar eclipse that had already started fading before it had even begun. It had cast the entire apartment beneath a warm, cold blanket of shadows that danced with the movement of the rays – a boarded-up house, abandoned and unwanted, would be brighter, more welcoming than this place that someone actually lived in. It made his chest hurt, the emptiness it inspired, the sense of hiding it only screamed because he knew what was there. To anyone else, it was completely silent. Alone.

“Hey.”

Tony didn’t jump, didn’t shout – didn’t even twitch at the unexpected break in the quiet, merely let his eyes slip to the side, to the near-dark figure hovering at the edge of the hallway, fidgeting in his own right, steps from the nearest sliver of identifying sunlight. The immediate rolling purr that emanated at the arrival was a dead giveaway.

“I got groceries,” he provided, reaching out for and into one of the paper bags, digging around for the only cold thing he had purchased. “I picked up a thing of Baskin Robbins Pralines n’ Cream for you for later, I noticed you were out. Also, boxed mac n’ cheese a few things of tuna – for you, not the cat –, boil bags of rice, peanut butter because you let dipshit eat the rest of it, Cheeto Puffs, uh – potatoes, assorted canned vegetables which are disgusting, crushed pineapple -.”

“I heard the locks.”

Tony stopped. The door locks weren’t quiet; they weren’t meant to be, and he hadn’t tried to muffle them. But they weren’t that loud.

“I heard the locks,” Bruce repeated, voice pitched like the dying side of hysteria, exhausted and exasperated and done. “Each one. Each … movement. I … I was waiting for the sound to go backwards, to go the other way, maybe someone wanted in – there was knocking, earlier-.”

“It was Clint,” Tony cut in; his phone was still hot against his thigh from the furious flurry of messages between him and his mortified, apologetic classmate. “He had your assignments, he just wasn’t thinking. I’m supposed to tell he’s sorry.” _Not as sorry as Nat will make him,_ he thought, and wondered if Bruce would think that too, later.

“Clint. Clint, right. Clint with my assignments.”

But right now, he knew that Bruce wasn’t thinking much of anything with the fear licking at his spine, the increased volume of every little sound, the locked-down waiting for the door to open, for something unexpected, seemingly innocent to get inside.

“Tony,” the younger man breathed. “To- damn it, I _can’t_. _Please_.”

Because now, it was a bad day.

In a blink, the ice cream was dropped back in the bag, and he was in the other room, his hands carefully framing Bruce’s face.

There were a lot of things that were different, since that night. Things that had changed.

“Hey, hey.” Even in the unlit hall, he could make out the wetness of the brown eyes bearing into him, searing as though they could burn a hole inside of him to hide in. Wild with fear, with anxiety, with a rage that had every right to come out but never would. Bruce’s eyes were a Goddamned, planet-wide storm. “It’s alright, Bruce.”

“Can you-.” Bruce sucked in a breath, and when it came out it was a little high, a whine of shame. “Tony, will you- I need you to-.”

Tony slipped around him, choosing not to kick the cat as he stepped toward the bathroom.

“Already have the needle loaded? I’m going to check. And then yes, I’ll wait. Of course I’ll wait.”

 

* * *

 

It had only been six weeks since Tony had arrived back to the university from Christmas break to a dark dorm and the muffled crying of his boyfriend. Only six weeks since Bruce had allowed Betty and Sam to cajole him into attending the small college party that had lasted too long.

Things had changed.

A handful of times a week, Tony would stand in the hallway, opposite of the bathroom door. Bruce would never let him watch, just wait – would miserably ask him to wait.

Wait for a sound, a cry, some signal that it wasn’t going right. Twice a dose had been too high.

He hadn’t been there that night, trapped at one of Howard’s fancy galas, while Bruce had been trapped in a cage of people who hadn’t listened to “no”. In Hell.

(Bruce didn’t remember much, _couldn’t_ remember much – a number that was more than three, hands that were too heavy, laughter that was too harsh. A sense of humiliation, jumbled words that only became clear in countless nightmares, the sticky sensation of beer poured over his head. No names, no faces, nothing distinguishable – no way to have anyone expelled, arrested. They were still out there, leaving Bruce with nothing more than the dread of waiting for it to happen again).

It _wouldn’t_ happen again.

 

* * *

 

Tony had spent a lifetime getting high before university, dancing on clouds and the existence of nothing important, taking any opportunity to get away from his problems that didn’t involve actually running away from them. Perpetually stoned. Perpetually flying.

This was different.

Bruce’s eyes, when he walked out of the bathroom, were no longer the roaring swirl of a hurricane wanting to destroy. There was nothing to be seen inside of him that he was struggling to contain, that was attempting to shred him apart from the inside, just living, dark brown, gleaming as though it all was trapped in a glass box, tucked just out of reach in his mind, quieted by a drug he’d created himself.

Tony watched him.

“Move, Alaric,” Bruce mumbled to the cat laying on the floor, nudging at it gently with his foot as he reached out. Tony let himself be snagged by the questing hand, felt immediately warmed by the fingers that wrapped around his wrist, seeking his pulse as an anchoring point that he was all too willing to give. There was body heat this time, a distinct lack of chill – it had been a good dose.

When pulled toward the bedroom, he followed without a word.

_(“Do you think it’s an escape?”)_

 

* * *

 

 

Sprawled carefully in the center of the bed, Tony rested with his back against the headboard, Bruce straddling his lap.

There was no sex. Just an overwhelming level of intimacy as the younger man slowly peeled his shirts away, all five, until his chest was bare, skin exposed in temptation for the gentle reassurance of his touch, which Bruce hadn’t stopped asking for. Nothing sexual, nothing teasing – just careful sweeps of his hands, curious traces of his fingers – “I … need to know you’re here” – Tony had long moved past being freaked out over the level of trust placed on him.

His fingers skittered up the pale skin of Bruce’s arm, tripping delicately over older needle marks before stopping at the edge of the fresh bandage at the crease of his elbow. “What’s it like?”

Bruce hummed a little, neither in acceptance nor disapproval. “It’s like … the ocean,” he offered quietly after a moment, truly considering. “Like being in the ocean.”

“Swimming or drowning?”

“Isn’t swimming just the stubborn denial of drowning?”

“Especially in the ocean, with currents or a rogue wave to pull you under, no warning at all.”

It was a horrifically apt description of everything.

Tony tilted his head up, watching as Bruce’s teeth pulled absently at his lower lip, and felt a surge of fondness race up his spine, painful in that his lover was suffering, was hemorrhaging on the inside with only a questionable chemical mixture to stop the bleeding; rich in that he was here at all, wrapped around him, still alive, still breathing. He moved his hand slowly, over the band-aid and up his arm, his shoulder, until his fingers smoothed up the nape of his neck to twist easily in the slowly-returning curls.

“Don’t drown just yet, though,” he whispered. “Let me find some land for you, Bruce. Okay?” He pushed, just a little, and the younger man melted against him, head falling into the cradle of his shoulder to paint puffs of heated breath against his skin.

“Okay.”

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: "listen"**

* * *

 

 

The logical and accepted understanding of nightmares is that they are false – nothing but images crafted by your brain, born from worries or horrors of your conscious life. They aren’t _real,_ they have never happened, and are reasonably unlikely to ever happen. The less commonly spoken of assumption of nightmares, though also born of majority agreement, is that they are for children, that at a certain age, people should stop having them, and those that don’t, have something inherently wrong with them.

Bruce knows a thing or two about nightmares.

To say that they are nothing more than images and irrational fear is to say that _life_ is nothing more than images and irrational fear – true to an outsider’s first observation, but wrong on every other level; a hypothesis with no sought after proof; words on the internet that everyone believes simply because they’re there. Images alone don’t grab you, don’t pull you inside of them, don’t surround you in the blanket of nothing, the empty feeling of fog and unease, the way that nightmares do – you can’t feel the claws of an image digging into your arm, can’t feel the lashes of a belt against the skin of your back if it doesn’t exist, can’t drown under words that aren’t being said. You can’t suffocate if the pillow over your face isn’t actually there, can’t feel the hatred raining down on your if there’s no one around to throw it. Irrational fear? Fear is only irrational to the person not suffering from it, unable to be understood by most others and in that, dismissed. _For children._

Beside him, Tony jerks in his sleep with a near-inaudible sound, and Bruce starts counting the seconds.

To believe that nightmares aren’t real is to wear entitled ignorance.

Because something that isn’t real doesn’t leave a black eye on unhealthily pale skin; doesn’t leave bruises so dark they look like unwet blood dotting along fragile, aching ribs. Something that isn’t real doesn’t reduce a high-spirited, affectionate twenty-year-old to a shaking mess of reluctantly accepting touches in his lover’s arms. Something that isn’t real can be turned off, walked away from, doesn’t swarm you in both your waking hours and your sleep.

Tony jerks again, a little harder this time – twelve seconds.

Bruce hums a little under his breath, not enough for any real sound but enough to make his chest, pressed carefully against Tony’s uninjured side, rumble with the vibration. It won’t be enough to break through whatever fog he’s fallen under, and Bruce won’t pull him up from it, knows from personal experience that it won’t solve anything, can make it worse – but it can soothe the terror of it, balm the loneliness, enough that he can eventually wake from it, blistered and broken but still breathing.

For a good man, it should be enough.

When the frown on Tony’s forehead releases, face still bruised and pale but smoothed from worry, he carefully eases himself from the bed, puts the pillow he’d been leaning on up against his lover’s side (the rush of fondness he feels as it’s immediately latched onto is just an increase of what already trickles through him, around this man). He backs away, keeps his eyes on the shivering figure on his bed until the doorknob lightly punches his back, and slips out in silence to the view.

Bruce has long since come to peace with the fact that he is not a good man.

They’re all in the living room, as he had known they would be. All three couches (excessive, but Tony had insisted on buying the furniture for him, once he’d noticed how often company was around) are empty, but they’re here – Thor leaning against the wall, arms folded in solemn anger; Clint sprawled on the floor, twirling a sharpened pocket knife between his fingers like a toy; Natasha stands in the entryway of the kitchen, eyes sharp on him even as her hand rests gently on Steve’s shoulder; Steve, tense and shaking against the frame – he’s had a rough time of it lately.

“Thor,” Bruce says quietly, has had years to get used to the weight of the focus of that attention on him. “I need you and Clint to pay a visit to Obadiah Stane. I don’t believe there will be any immediate problem, but I’d like if you would … impress upon him the benefits of there being no problem at any time in the future, as well.”

Clint flips to his feet with grace born of his circus training, a stolen gift. “Gonna do it, then?” He poses with a smirk, flipping the knife closed and tucking it into his pocket. It’s rhetorical. “Fucking finally.”

Thor shoves him. Bruce would have smiled if not for the string of chill tying him to the bedroom.

“Nat, I know it’s not exactly corporate espionage, but if you would come with me-.”

“Of course,” the redhead cuts him off, still watching him evenly, because she knows him better than he knows himself, most days. Her hand moves a little further across Steve’s shoulder, squeezes so tightly that the white of her knuckles are screamingly obvious.

“I could help you,” Steve offers softly, glancing up. Bruce’s fists tighten.

Steve is the second youngest in this group of pieces of broken glass he’s collected, seven months older than Tony, but it’s only apparent on nights like these, in the aftermath of a blow, when it rains too hard and gets too cold and the novelty of what they do wears off to reality. In another world, Bruce thinks Steve would have been the leader – he’s got the mind for it, when he focuses; definitely has the heart. But here, in this world, he’s been torn just a little too much, stretched just a little too far, grown faster than he should have, and while one day he may be able to stand beside his memories instead of under them, it’s not now. He could help, certainly, and would without hesitation if Bruce would say the word.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you, Steve,” he says kindly, steps forward so that he can put his hand against the younger’s jaw – he’s nearly as touch starved as Tony, relishes in the tenderness of their affection. “Not tonight, not this soon after what happened. Another time. _Soon_ ,” he throws in quickly when he feels a protest forming. “Tonight, though, I need you to stay here with Tony, because _he’ll_ need you if he wakes up. You’re his best friend anymore, these days.”

“After you,” the blonde mumbles, but the fight drains from him immediately.

“It’s because you’re not screwing him,” Clint offers from behind him. “If you were banging him, I’m sure he’d favor you over Ban-ah!” The squawk is quiet, the following whines tiny over the cynical chuckle that rolls over it.

“We’ll be going to see Stane now,” Thor intones, and Bruce glances over his shoulder to see the taller man drag Clint out the door, closing it gently behind them. Tony thinks they’re a riot.

He turns back to Steve, who’s now looking him straight on. “I gave him something to help him sleep.” He doesn’t need to tell Steve of all people that it doesn’t help with the nightmares. “Just be here with him. You can do that, can’t you?”

The eyes turn steely with determination. “Yes.”

Bruce knocks their heads together lightly and doesn’t watch as Steve pulls away to move toward the bedroom.

And then it’s just him and Natasha and the string that ties him to Tony.

“What are you doing?” She asks him.

It’s not “what are _we_ doing?”, not “what’s going to happen when _we_ walk out that door?” Bruce had known Natasha first, before any of them, and though sometimes it feels like life hadn’t really started before Tony Stark had ambled into his life without invitation, it had, and Natasha knows. What is _he_ doing?

“He’ll know, after this,” she warns, stepping away to grab her jacket from a kitchen chair – he can see the glimmer of her pistol as her shirt rises at the action. “You’ve managed to keep him in the dark this long because we haven’t done anything big, but Bruce – this is big.” She turns back toward him. “A different scale of big. And Tony Stark is as far from stupid as they come.”

“I know.” What is he doing? It’s not that it’s personal – it is, but with him, with this group, it almost always is. Bruce has no thirst for flamboyant power, for the infamy that can come from playing this game – it’s half of the reason he’s left people like Howard Stark alone for so long. A necessary evil. But that’s not what she means either. They can afford to lose Howard Stark. They can even afford to lose Stane (though he’ll hold off on that for as long as possible, another round of responsibility that he doesn’t want).

It’s Tony.

Tony who has situated himself into the lives of his group as much as he has into Bruce’s. The son of a competitor who hadn’t had an interest in taking up the pedestal, whose main concern in life had been building robots and making technology and coming up with ways to make the world better as a whole. Tony who Bruce had taken one look at two years ago and had ridiculously become instantly enamored with. Tony who can’t shut up, who can’t stop moving, who gives so much of himself while pretending that it’s not what he’s doing at all. Tony who loves a version of Bruce that Bruce has let him see; who doesn’t know what he does on the nights they’re not together, on the afternoons where he has to break a date. Tony who has come to abhor the existence of violence.

(Tony who had shown up at his door tonight with more than just the one bruise he would occasionally have (“Relax, Banner, I fell off the couch in the lab when Dummy woke me up. I bruise easy. You _know_ I bruise easy.” A smirk. “Sure it hurts. Give me another one to focus on instead?”), breath hitching on every inhale because he hadn’t been able to breathe, hunched in on himself to hide his bruised, bloodshot eye. (“Don’t take me to the hospital. They’ll tell him.”). Tony who had fallen apart on the bed, overwhelmed from the exhaustion of being awake for thirty-nine hours, from the pain of binding his ribs, from the slow descent into muffled sleep from the concoction Bruce had coaxed down his throat (“Please don’t be mad at me, Bruce.”). Tony who had broken his heart tonight, now trapped in nightmares on his bed, and all Bruce wants to do is go back in there and hold him).

“If he leaves, he leaves,” he says, gritting his teeth. “But at least if – _when_ , whatever – he walks out that door, it’ll be into a world where there is no Howard Stark there to hurt him. If I can give him at least that, Natasha, I’ll die a happy man whether he stays or not.”

It’s the truth, and Natasha sighs, coming to him again, crowding enough that they’re touching – personal space has never been a concern of hers when making a point. “It’s been a long time since you’ve hurt anyone as badly as you’re planning to, longer since you’ve _killed_ anyone, and I’m going to do my best to make sure that you walk away from this one somewhat whole, so that you can be there when Tony _doesn’t_ run away. So _listen_ ,” she stresses harshly. “When you do this, and you’re going to do this, you think only of Tony. I know that rage inside of you, I know that you’ll want to let it swallow you up, but you’re not going to let it. You’re going to think of Tony, of his smile, of his laugh, of his stupid robots and unhealthy caffeine addiction. You’re going to think about how worn down he’s been lately. You’re going to think about how he came to you tonight. And you’re going to use your anger; you’re going to make it work with you, for Tony. Because it’s the only way you’re going to be able to leave him something worth the price of a funeral, so that he can have that closure.” Her fingers slip into the waistband of his jeans and pulls out his revolver – he’ll hear about that later. “To everyone else in the city, this is business. To us and to you, this is for him.”

Natasha waves the gun in front of his face. With each swing, Bruce pictures Tony’s teasing, taunting grin.

He takes it from her, nudging her away as he puts it on the table.

He won’t need it.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **prompt: "darkness"**

* * *

 

 

_The only thing I’d ever be a good sub for_

_Would be to punish._

_To beat._

_To humiliate and use._

_I’m perfect to tear down_

_To rage on._

_I can’t be quiet._

_I can’t obey._

_But I can scream, hurt, and bleed._

**_Collar me_ **

_And the pleas from my mouth will be yours_

_All I am able to give to you._

 

* * *

 

 

“I can’t do this.”

 

Bruce couldn’t stop the shivers that pulled through his muscles, twitching across his skin like burning electric shocks. His fingers clenched unbidden in the sheets of the bed in counterpoint to his rapid breathing – he could _hear_ the pants of his breath across his lips, feel each one puff against the sweat-slicked skin of his fists.

 

The air was warm, and the bed he’d been directed to and carefully positioned upon was soft, almost welcoming. The bindings around his wrists were silk instead of chain, no bite of metal to chastise an improper movement; the pillow framing his knees molded to his bones, technologically cool and soothing.

 

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” he babbled to the silence of the room.

 

The blindfold across his eyes that cast his world into complete darkness was both heavy and light – he felt its weight as acutely as he felt every inch of his own body, the droop of it under gravity, pressing him into the mattress as if it was where he was supposed to be. He couldn’t see. If he could see, he could know, he could make himself understand that he wasn’t supposed to be here, that he didn’t deserve this cradling, this comfort.

 

“Please.” It choked out of his throat in a scraping skip that burned.

 

His body jolted at the feel of fingertips against his spine, trailing upwards in featherlight touches; he keened, high and reluctant, as they skipped over his neck, stuttering on the tie of the blindfold before combing backwards through his hair. Touches, grounding touches,

 

“I’m right here, big guy.” The words were rough, yet soothing; he choked again as the burning of his eyes increased. “Shh. You’re not alone. You’re exactly where I want you to be. You’re doing so well. So good.”

 

“I can’t-.” _Don’t say that!_ “Master-.”

 

“ _No_.” The fingers in his hair tightened briefly, a warning. “Not ‘Master’. Not here, not with you. We talked about this, gorgeous. I’m just Tony for you. Always.”

 

Bruce sagged, just a little, enough that the fingers in his hair pulled again as they followed his minute descent. _Tony._ It was Tony, wasn’t it? It sounded like Tony, said Tony’s words – but he couldn’t see him. He shivered again, so hard that his bones protested the movement with hurt, and the fire building in his eyes finally spilled over, tracking wet embers that soaked into the blindfold and trickled down his skin. He whimpered, pathetic as he was.

 

A breathy swear pulled from the person so close to him. “Fuck, I could _burn_ the assholes who tried to break you.” More Tony words, hot and twisted anguished. “Hell, maybe I will. If it’s legal for them to do it to you, I certainly have enough money to do it them. Would you like that? Probably not. Maybe I’d still do it. Who the fuck could make someone as brilliant as you so scared to go under? I’ll burn them in their beds.” More tears bled from his eyes. “Shh, Bruce. You’re okay. I’m here.”

 

Without warning, another set of fingers brushed across his face, through the wetness on his skin, but even as he instinctively flinched back at the touch, Bruce recognized the drag of the callouses, their rigid bumps and the sensation of safety they called up his spine.

 

“T-Tony?” He breathed, and was rewarded with a quick press of lips to his temple.

 

“There you are, beautiful,” Tony whispered encouragingly against him. The fingers on his face dropped to his arms, skimming over the silk bindings on his wrists before moving to cup his elbow. “You got this. Don’t you?”

 

It was Tony. God. Fuck, it was Tony. There wasn’t anyone else, no one else would be here if Tony was. Tony – Tony had put him here, Tony had led him to the bed, directed him to all fours, given him the cushion for his knees, the silk for his wrists. Tony … wanted him comfortable. Wanted him to feel safe, to feel okay. Tony had wrapped the blindfold around his eyes- Bruce’s breath hitched again.

 

**_He couldn’t see._ **

 

“You don’t, do you?” Tony asked him, leaning closer. There was no inflection in his voice, his hands didn’t move from their positions, but the lead slammed into Bruce’s gut anyway. He wasn’t doing this right, he was disappointing – _I told you, I told you, I told you._ “You don’t have this at all. It’s not working for you, is it?” _Hurt me,_ Bruce wanted to say. _Hurt me, I can if you hurt me._ “Big guy, it’s okay. You have your word. Remember? Remember that word you told me you’d use? It’s right there. Just say it.”

 

“Wanna be,” he whined. “W-wanna, wanna be _good_. Tony I _wanna be good-.”_ God, why couldn’t he just be good? Just for Tony, Tony deserved it, Tony deserved a good sub.

 

“You _are_ good,” Tony panted harshly in his ear; the hand on his elbow flexed with the words, he sounded upset and Bruce couldn’t _see_. “It’s okay not to like this, not to have be comfortable. If you want to stop, _tell me_. Just tell me. You can.”

 

“Y-you like it.” He did. If he focused hard enough, pulled away from himself enough, Bruce could remember the glimmer of fondness in Tony’s glittering eyes when he had presented the blindfold. (‘Love these things,’ the other man had said with a wide smile. ‘Love what they can do to a sub, where they can take them. It’d look pretty on you.’) _I don’t want to disappoint you. I want to be good._

 

Fingers dropped to play with the tie in the back, and Bruce tensed. “I want you to use your word if you want to stop, Bruce,” the dominant growled. And then pulled the blindfold tight against his skin, and any possible shade of light was immediately gone.

 

There was _nothing_ , absolutely nothing. No Tony, no room, there was **nothing,** anything could happen, Tony could leave, he could fail, he’d be sent back, they’d take him away, _I can’t do this I can’t do this I can’t I can’t I can’t_ -

 

“Lullaby.” Did he push it from his lips, or did it push itself? He couldn’t see. “Lullaby, please, Mas-Tony, please, lullaby, **_lullaby_** _-.”_

 

The blindfold ripped away. Oxygen ripped into him with motherly desperation as the reaches of the thoughts vanished as if struck away. His chest seized. _Fuck, fuck._

 

“Good boy, Bruce. Good, you’re so good, God you’re perfect.” Tony's words. Tony's voice. Lips pressed heavily against his head; hands pulled away his bindings. He was dragged upwards, immediately surrounded in the trembling warmth of arms that had never happened before. “It’s okay, gorgeous, you’re okay. I’m here, you’re so good for me Bruce. You’re so good, you did so well. Perfect.”

 

On the softness of the bed, Bruce could see.

 

Tony’s face, a breath from his, his own eyes drowning in unshed, self-hating tears.

 

* * *

 

 

_There is a difference_

_Between being cautiously happy and being contently resigned_

_I have been fucked and have fucked both of those sides._

_Hurt you, punish you, use you?_

_It would make you feel safe_

_And it would ruin you._

_My rage belongs against my own self._

_I’ll be your Dominant_

**_When you ask me to be._ **

_When you can trust my words_

_Not your fear of my wrath._

_You will be able to give everything to me._

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **prompt: "free fall"**

* * *

 

 

Tony doesn’t even realize that his feet have carried him to the lab until Bruce’s hand is on his arm.

 

Which is kind of impressive, considering it’s two floors above the last one he remembers being on.

 

His head is a little fuzzy as he takes in the concerned features of the other man, but he can make out that the frown between his eyebrows is its usual strange mixture of exasperated and worried, made all the more apparent by the glow of the hard monitors the scientist prefers for his work, coated in a type of science that Tony isn’t yet quite fluent in. He swears he can see some of the equations reflected in the brown eyes that bear into him with intense consideration, and the thought sends an unbidden bubble of laughter up his chest, chased by an eager numbness that claws up his throat.

 

It isn’t fair.

 

He’s Iron Man. He’s _Iron Man_. This was supposed to have _stopped_.

 

“Shit,” Bruce huffs, his free hand grabbing Tony’s (it’s shaking. Huh. He hadn’t realized that, either). “You’re supposed to come to me _before_ it gets this bad, Tony.”

 

“Progress is a slow moving train to perfection, big guy,”  he tries to joke over the sluggishly building noise in his head, but the smile that spreads across his face feels strained. Damn it. “Distraction now?”

 

“Which kind?” The other man murmurs, squeezing his hand. He pushes Tony backwards, and as the staticy numbing _something_ starts constricting his lungs, Tony lets him.

 

They’ve been doing this for months, probably enough months to equate a year, but after everything Tony’s become pretty shit at keeping track of days and time. While Bruce continues to maintain that he’s not the kind of doctor, Tony has always been a firsthand-experience-over-degrees sort of guy, and he’s relatively sure that there isn’t a doctor on the planet who would alternate between playing Mario Kart at four in the morning after a bad spell and sucking him off in a slow tease that leaves him exhausted and loose enough to sleep, would curl around him every other night just to share the heat.

 

His fingers begin to go numb too, and if he closes his eyes too long, the darkness breeds the stars of space. “Just, uh, talk to me,” he says. His knees hit the back of the couch Bruce had asked for some time ago, and obediently he falls into it. “Tell me something.” _Something not related to New York._ It’s on their list of Do Not Broach subjects: New York, the team, the armor, Pepper.

 

Bruce _tsks_ thoughtfully, crowding him toward the end of the couch and the pillow there. “Tell you something?” He inquires with an almost scientific tone, like Tony’s given him some half-formed formula that needs solved, except it’s not really a question and he doesn’t have to answer. “Want me to tell you about the trip to the zoo I took last weekend? The new baby hippo was awake, cute as hell. Or – I lost twelve games of Mario Kart in a row to JARVIS this morning while I was waiting for my experiment to set. Twelve. He didn’t even blue shell me, mostly because I never got the chance to make it to first place.”

 

Tony almost smiles at the image that makes, because JARVIS is always humble in victory and Bruce is not the best loser. But a chill sweeps through him in chase of the thought, unbidden and unwanted – his legs are going numb now, too.

 

(He’d let them pull the arc reactor from his chest; let them drag their scalpels along his skin, let them slip their metal inside of him, let them dig for and pull out every shard of shrapnel that had wanted to inch forward and shred his heart to slivers of meat and blood. He’d discovered himself to the never-ending tune of medical monitors, propped on his hospital bed and under the attention of doctors and nurses. Had discovered what it truly meant, to be a man of iron and purpose. He can feel it claw at his spine, dig into his shoulders – the chill of space, the taste of his final breath on his tongue, the silence, the loneliness of his death. He hadn’t been able to breathe then, like he can’t now – can’t catch a breath. Can’t _breathe._

 

He’d torn out the reactor and ripped open his chest and become a better man, a stronger man, with the armor or without the arm it hadn’t mattered doesn’t matter and _they’re out there,_ armies of enemies he can’t defeat, armies that had almost killed him he’d died alone, he can’t fight these, he’s destroyed the armor there’s nothing out there, nothing he has that can defeat them _it isn’t fair.)_

 

 “-isten. You know how you’re always wanting to know things about me, Tony – I’m going to tell you something. About me. About the Other Guy. If you want to hear it, you have to listen to me. Do you want to?”

 

It’s a dirty trick. Of course he wants to fucking hear it. _“Y-yeah.”_

 

“Alright. Okay then. But you have to focus on your breathing while I talk, and you have to listen to what I say. Can you do that?” Cautiously, Bruce sits beside him, close enough that they’re near on top of each other. He keeps their hands clasped, and his fingers twitch against the tingling of Tony’s, curls his free arm around Tony’s shoulders as if to buffer the phantom cold. “When I was younger, before things got as bad as they, uh, _did_ , my parents would just fight. “Well, not _just_ fight. They weren’t arguments about taking out the trash or about a bill not getting paid, like normal couples fight over. They were pretty apocalyptic fights, with the yelling and the arm waving and the continual threats of violence that no one actually said out loud but you could like, feel in the air, you know?”

 

“Where are you,” the words pant out, so sue him, it’s getting a little hard to breathe, “going with this?”

 

Bruce squeezes his fingers again. “No interrupting. So as I was saying.  Whenever the tension would start to near its breaking point, those couple of minutes of silence, my mom would send me outside to play in the front yard. So I’d sit in the grass under the tree, play with my Captain America and Howling Commandos action figures, and pretend that I couldn’t hear my parents screaming at each other, that I couldn’t feel all that suffocating hate just seeping out of my house. The neighbors would look out their windows, and of course I knew I was the only thing they could see, so it made me feel … small. Stupid.”

 

_You’re not stupid_ , he barely keeps himself from saying, sucks in a breath. _‘Aliens are stupid. I’m stupid. You’re Bruce Banner. Not stupid.’_

 

“They’d always end the same, though, the fights – my dad storming out of the house and to the car, shouting that he was going to work. He’d never even look at me. But my mom; I only knew that the fighting was really over when she’d come out. She’d come up to me, her eyes rimmed red from crying, but she’d come sit on the grass next to me, and she’d be smiling. She’d take my hand and look up at the sky, and after either a few minutes she’d get kinda wistful and say “Sun’s gettin’ real low”. Just like that. I can hear it, clear as day. Sun’s gettin’ real low. I always felt … okay, when she’d say that. Like just her words could make everything that happened go away.”

 

(His mind dredges up the image of a woman with brown hair and freckled skin, wearing a yellow dress because yellow is a warm color and the spark in his mind drawing up the picture insists that this woman is warm – her smile certainly is, not clearly outlined but still there, radiant, pointed at him. He’s cold, and she’s not. Bruce isn’t, either).

 

The arm around his shoulder slowly pulls away, instead snaking between them to land on the middle of Tony’s inner thigh. It’s an intimate touch, repeating slow, calming circles, sparks heat in every pass that shoots through his veins. Their heads butt together softly, and any air Tony isn’t getting, Bruce is breathing into him.

 

“…Changing into the Hulk,” Bruce says slowly, “if it’s a surprise, is like my skin getting caught on meat hooks that tug until I rip, until the muscles tear and the bones pop and I’ve felt every ounce of pain possible. Changing on purpose is half that pain, trudging through knee-deep mud while I slowly bleed out. But coming back, no matter which method, is the same every time – like being in free fall, with that sickening feeling that grabs your stomach when you realize you’re going to hit the ground and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I can’t tell you which is worse, or better, but after every fall, I pull up that memory. Yoga, tea, avoiding “stressful situations”, sure they work. But that specific memory, those words … it’s my anchor.”

 

“Sun’s gettin’ real low,” Tony hears himself echo, feels the words in his mouth, and the mental image of the woman silent says the words with him, still smiling.  Both of the hands on him tighten – he feels more than hears Bruce’s sharp inhale, and he apologizes automatically. “I’m sorry.”

 

“No, don’t be. I’m not-“ another shared breath between them. The touch points are making him calm. “-I’m not mad. That, it, it sounds okay, coming from you.” He laughs a little, then, and it demands Tony’s focus, the way Bruce always does when he gets like this (the reason it works at all, really). He can make out the splinters of gold and warm brown in Bruce’s eyes, as close as they are, like something had shattered inside and hadn’t broken. He finally loosens their hands, letting his skim up Tony’s arm to rest against his neck. “Better,” he says softly.

 

“Breathing and everything, all on my own,” Tony quips back. There’s still a layer of cold over his skin, but it’s not like … that time. He can feel his legs, with Bruce’s hand on his thigh. He can feel a lot more than he can’t.

 

The hand on his neck pulls him to the side a little – he doesn’t go lightheaded with the lips that press against his own; it’s not a hard kiss. But it’s soothing, just touching, and the other man puffs the words “Let’s get you to bed” against him.

 

“I don’t think sleep is a good idea right now,” Tony argues, and the physicist laughs again. The hand on his thigh tickles higher, a teasing brush before it pulls away completely, along with the lips. His friend stands, pulling him along, keeping a steady grip on his hand to keep him from falling to the ground as he does.

 

“Trust me,” Bruce says solemnly (he understands the fragile line between being better and being okay, how long it takes to cement yourself on the right side of it) and then smirks before Tony can respond. “I promise it’ll be a few hours before I let you sleep.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **prompt: "artificial"**

* * *

 

 

It’s eleven thirty-three in the morning, but the blinds are still drawn tightly shut over the bedroom window, and as such, Bruce is still curled in the puff of blankets that cover their bed, trapped deep in the exhausted sort of sleep that always keeps him under for as long as it can.

 

He looks impossibly peaceful in his warm nest, features complimented under the dusting of the filtered, shadowed streams of sunlight that manage to sneak their way in. Adjusting the neck of his blazer, Tony can’t really take his eyes off of him.

 

Yesterday … hadn’t been great. It had taken over an hour to convince Bruce to just crack open the door enough for Tony to be sure he’d been alright, forty-seven minutes more (he’d counted, he always counts) to coax him into letting him inside. Bruce had been completely naked, shivering with the bitterness of Brooklyn’s January air – the bathroom light had been on, the mirror immediately visible, but Tony hadn’t made hypocritical accusations. Just wrapped the other man in the bed’s comforter and then in his arms – hours more had been spent calming the voices in Bruce’s head enough just to get him to sleep.

 

Today _won’t_ be a bad day, as neither will tomorrow, or the next few days after. He’ll have an episode of his own before Bruce has another. He’ll wake up okay, and while they won’t pretend that yesterday hadn’t happened, it won’t have any effect on today. That doesn’t make it any easier to step away. It’s hard, having Bruce and understanding how fragile they are together, how easily they can break apart.

 

But if he doesn’t leave now, he’ll miss his meeting, and if he misses the meeting, he’ll miss the chance.

 

“Watch him, JARVIS, will you?” He calls just loudly enough to be heard. In response, the lamp on the bedside table flickers on and then off, the AI obviously in on the operation of Not Waking Bruce Up. It makes him smile.

 

He walks out backwards, mindful of the tennis shoes beside the dresser, of the books spread haphazardly on the floor by the door, of the catch in the carpet just before the hallway, and when he closes the door, he doesn’t let it latch.

 

Which isn’t necessary. He can shut it, if he wants to. Today _won’t_ be a bad day. Bruce will be fine.

 

But still.

 

Just in case.

 

* * *

 

 

The diner is small, a hole in the wall, nothing that attracts attention. It’s obvious just from the outside that it keeps in business strictly due to loyal, _old_ regulars, possibly with the added benefit of a lost, hungry tourist, desperate for a meal. The sign above the door says **_Diner,_** for fuck’s sake.

 

Tony walks in to an atmosphere of authentic cigarette smoke and soft jazz music playing from an honest-to-God jukebox in the corner, tiled flooring that has gone yellow and gray with age, walls of slightly-peeling green wallpaper that are littered with old WWII propaganda and black-and-white pictures ranging from returning soldiers to abandoned concentration camps to the aftershocks of Pearl Harbor and what a second glance shows to be both Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A few frames hold crumpled up enlistment forms, a few more have fading handwritten letters behind their glass with ink that looks like it had been, at one point, splattered. A depressing setting out of place with the music that radiates pleasantly from the machine.

 

“Cozy, right?” Comes a cheerful call from the bar.

 

His eyes dart toward it. A man, thin and blonde and pale and shorter than him, straddles a black stool, elbows resting against the counter as he eyes Tony up.

 

“They’ve got another one in LA that’s all Vietnam, and one in … Indiana, I think, that’s centered on Native Americans and what happened to them,” the guy continues with a lazy grin. “The ones for slavery and for the aftermath of 9/11, got cited and closed down. They’re appealing. I’m Steve, and I’m guessing with the light in your chest that you’re Tony.” He twists the chair back toward the bar without waiting for a response, and the older waitress behind it smiles warmly. “My friend’s here, Helen. We’re going to take the booth in the back, if that’s alright.”

 

“It’s fine, honey,” the woman responds, waving the guy off. “Go on. Signal me when you want coffee.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” is the laughed answer, and then the blonde is hopping from the barstool, feet moving lightly as he heads toward the back, pausing only long enough to turn and arch an eyebrow at Tony. “Coming?”

 

This is such a stupid idea, what the hell had he been thinking –

 

Tony follows.

 

“You’re seriously Steve?” He asks dubiously as they reach the back booth with its red table and black seats. He scrunches his nose at the ashtray in the center, ready to be used and half-filled with cigarette butts. “Not a narc or anything? Natasha’s Steve?”

 

The blonde chuckles, sliding into one side and sweeping the ashtray against the wall in one fluid movement, gesturing for Tony to join him. “Good thing I’m not a narc, or you’d be out already, huh? And if we’re going with possessive titles, I prefer Natasha and _Bucky’s_ Steve, but if it’s just for identification’s sake, then yes, I’m Natasha’s Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers.”

 

He doesn’t hold out his hand. Tony can only assume that Natasha had warned him ahead of time of his dislike of being touched.

 

“Just Tony,” he answers, finally sitting down. The seat squeaks under him, awkward. “I thought you’d be taller.”

 

“Nat talks me up,” Steve shrugs off. Blue eyes trace around him. “ _I_ thought you’d be coming with someone else.”

 

Tony tenses instantly, casting a quick, anxious glance to the clock on the wall. It’s only been half an hour. Bruce will still be sleeping, safe in their dumpy little house in their shady part of the city, unaware of where Tony is, free of that concern.

 

“Hey.” He flinches as Steve’s hand hits the table, not touching his, but close enough that he can feel the momentary shock of it. His head jerks back to the other man, and Steve’s smile is gone, replaced with a genuinely apologetic look. “I’m sorry. It’s safe to talk here, we’re fine. I didn’t mean to freak you out, Tony. I honestly did think he’d be coming-.”

 

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” he cuts in quickly. The look turns startled, maybe a little suspicious. “He worries. I was going to tell him after I knew it was legit. Is it?” His eyes narrow right back into the doubtful ones. “Can you really do it?”

 

“Depends on why you’re asking,” Steve shoots back, leaning away. His hand, thankfully, goes with him. “What do you need it for? Scared of a little social stigma, being with him? Don’t like being talked about? I don’t do this for just anyone that comes knocking on my door. You didn’t bring him, so I’m gonna ask, and you’re going to be straight with me. Are you doing this for yourself, Tony?”

 

“No, I’m doing this for _him_ ,” Tony sneers, because fuck Steve Rogers. “This will do a lot for _him_. People will stop looking at him funny, stop _judging_ him. They won’t have a reason to ostracize him. He won’t be afraid to get a job because of what happened the last time someone found out. He won’t be so doubting of himself. He’ll be happy.” _No more bad days._

“So you think giving you both matching Soul Symbols will make him happy? Just like that?”

 

“No, not _just like that.”_ He hadn’t come here for a shrink – he didn’t have time for this. “I know some artificial Symbol isn’t going to form any sort of bond between us, isn’t going to work as if the universe has realized it made a mistake on that night in December thirty-two years ago, isn’t going to erase all of the shit he went through because of it. I know it won’t make us real soulmates. But it’ll _help_. It’ll keep him from, from… fuck, from standing in front of the mirror-.”

 

“And reminding himself that he really is as worthless and unneeded by the world as he feels? That he has no right to want anything else because the universe said he doesn’t deserve it?” Steve finishes quietly. Surprised, Tony stops talking – the blonde no longer looks suspicious, just … sad. “Will stop thinking about how there are some countries out there that euthanize children who are born unmarked? Stop thinking that he should have been born in one of them, instead of here, so he would have been, too?”

 

Tony has heard those same words in first person verbatim. “How’d-.”

 

Steve unzips his jacket.

 

Pale, thin skin shines under the give of the blue fabric, but the off-beat joke on the tip of Tony’s tongue about going commando dies at the sight of the Symbol that blooms in the center of Steve’s chest. A red star, large and glimmering, the side arm of it broken from the hole of a bullet, the end of which is the only piece visible. As Tony watches, the shades of the colors change in rhythm with Steve’s heartbeat, the Symbol as alive as its bearer. It’s gorgeous to look. He’s almost forgotten how damned beautiful Symbols are.

 

“Nat has this Symbol right above her hip, about half this size but otherwise exact,” the shorter man says softly, looking down at it. “Bucky has it too, curving around his left shoulder, only slightly smaller than mine.”

 

“You were lucky to find them both,” Tony offers softly, and he means it sincerely. A lot of tri-soulmates take a long time to come together, most assuming they’re only part of a pair.

 

“I wasn’t born with mine.”

 

He freezes. Steve looks back up, and smiles again.

 

“I was born empty,” he reveals quietly, fingers touching his Symbol. “They tied it to me being born so sick, to a childhood of being sick, and so I was more pitied than hated because of not having a Symbol. But I would still look in the mirror sometimes, wondering why fate had hated me enough not to give me a soulmate, thinking how I wasn’t good enough for anyone anyway. I always had Bucky, you know, as a friend. And I grew to love him, but I never said anything, because of his Symbol – I wanted him to find his soulmate. Natasha, as it turns out. They found each other, and that should’ve been it. For our friendship, and for me probably.” He rubs the star and laughs. “Nat wouldn’t let me disappear, though. And neither would Buck. They just kinda latched on, and days of being forced to stay turned into weeks of growing happy to hang out turned into months of … well … falling in love with them as a pair and as individuals. And luckily for me, the feeling was mutual.

 

But I wanted to really belong to them, as much as I could. I didn’t want anything to take them away from me. So … I came up with this.” Tony follows his fingers over the Symbol. “I’m an artist by trade, you know. Went to school for it, and by fact and not ego, I’m good at it. I like capturing things perfectly. I got some help with the ink from a friend over in Iceland, whose brother was interested in the idea. I was the first test subject of an unknown ink.”

 

“First _successful_ test subject,” Tony breathes, because goddamn, it looks so real that he’s almost overcome enough to touch it.

 

“Yeah. I-yeah. It was successful. _Is_.” Slowly, Steve zips up the jacket, the covering blocking the Symbol from Tony’s eyes. He blinks rapidly. “You’re not wrong, technically, that it’s artificial – I put the Symbol there, as opposed to God or the universe or whatever you believe is responsible for them. But every morning I wake up with the people I chose, who chose me, who want to share a Symbol with me. We’re not together just because it’s supposed to be. It’s still real. And it’ll be real for you and him, too, if it’s what you both want.”

 

“How would you … do it, with us?” He cringes at the wording. “I mean, how – Natasha and … Bucky had Symbols for you to make. Theoretically, you would use mine, except- I mean you can’t- It’s not-.”

 

“Natasha told me,” Steve interjects delicately. Hell, this is nothing about Steve Rogers that doesn’t want to make Tony flinch, is there? Instinctively, his arm folds across his chest, blocking the reactor. The man looks upset – with himself, for bringing it up? With the acknowledgement that it exists at all? “I know. I’m sorry, again. She thought if I knew it would help me want to meet with you, help you out-.”

 

“And did it?” It’s worth it, then. The scarring on his chest, where his own Symbol used to be until he’d gotten his hands on a knife; the ghosts of Tiberius’ gentle touches and vicious anger; he’d been hated, so fucking _hated_ -.

 

“Yes.”

 

Tony looks up at him. “You’re okay with someone wanting to be with someone else who isn’t their soulmate?” He asks wryly. “Who disfigured themselves just to separate themselves from said soulmate? _Really?”_

 

“I’m okay with someone leaving a lover who hurts them,” the blonde says, firm. “Soulmate or not. I don’t condone abuse in any situation. And I definitely support being with someone who loves you. Let me ask you something, Tony – can you let him touch you, when other people can’t?”

 

He swallows, because touching is Bruce’s favorite activity. Not always sexual – taps on the shoulder, rubbing his back; he’s particularly fond of dragging his fingers through Tony’s hair and around his beard. He loves every single one. “Yeah. I can.”

 

“Then I’m okay with you. As for how I’m going to do it … I’ve already started.”

 

“Um …” He feels distinctly un-tattoo’ed. “What-.”

 

Steve’s fingers rap against the table. “We don’t get to pick our Symbols. They’re picked for us. But by Someone, or if you want, some _thing_ , which knows who were are. So I … mimic that. If you both want this, _I_ choose the Symbol.”

 

““What if we don’t like it?” The other man shrugs.

 

“A lot of people don’t like their Symbols. Natasha and Bucky don’t like ours. It’s not about liking them. It’s about being connected by them. You get too wrapped up in trying to find something that perfectly represents you, and you end up tearing yourselves down reaching for perfection. If I do it, there’s no problem. It’s not like I’m going to pick a random design. I’ll talk with you, get to know you, form some idea of who you are. And I’ll also need to talk to him-.”

 

“ _Bruce_.” It feels okay, now, to tell Steve; in fact, Tony feels guilty for not having done it before. “His name is Bruce. He uh, he had a bad day yesterday. Really bad. I was planning on telling him this morning, because try though I really fucking do, I can’t actually lie to him. But I just, didn’t want to wake him. So that’s where he is. Bruce. He’s sleeping in our bed.”

 

Steve’s eyes are understanding, kind, warm. “I also need to talk with Bruce.”

 

Tony laughs, then.

 

It’s not a laugh of amusement, or of ridicule – he doesn’t mean to laugh at all, actually. But it slips out of his mouth in a mixture of barking and choking, tastes like the relief he’d felt when Bruce had taken him up on the rushed offer of a date, seventeen months ago. Sharp. “This is _illegal_ , you know that? _Prison-time_ illegal.” Not that he cares.

 

Steve shrugs, smile wide as he sits all the way back, signaling to Helen the waitress. “It’s never not worth it. Coffee?”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s one twenty-seven in the afternoon when he slips back into their bedroom in their stupid little house that sits in the middle of a notoriously unsafe part of Brooklyn.

 

JARVIS flickers the lights in silent greeting.

 

Tony used to have a mansion. He used to have money. He used to have fame and security and a job that hadn’t sometimes brought possibly-stolen vehicles into his garage. He used to lock himself in the bathroom sometimes, stare at his chest, and wonder why his soulmate had hated him when soulmates are supposed to be the ones to for sure love you.

 

Now, he has Bruce in his bed, buried under blankets, safe and warm.

 

Like a snake, Tony slithers in beside his lover, grins at the sleepy noise of approval he receives in response, feels unbidden warmth at the way Bruce turns himself within the blankets to face him.

 

“Y’went somewhere.” It’s not a mumbled accusation. Eyes darker than his own, muddled with sleep, blink at him curiously. “Smoke. Coffee. Y’kay?” A hand peeks out from the blankets, reaches out to butt against his cheek.

 

“As okay as you are, buddy,” he assures, buries his face into the blankets as soft noises of humor erupt from them. It’s not actually funny, but they’ve learned to laugh at themselves. “I’ll tell you when you’re more awake. There’s a huge box of fresh donuts in the kitchen after you’re done sleeping. Maybe a pie in the fridge, I don’t know.”

 

“Lil’more sleep,” comes the agreement, shifting a bit – Tony lifts his head to meet the inquisitive look. “Pie?”

 

He’s still smiling. “ _Apple pie_ , even. Pie fairy, you think? Not the best incentive to lock the door at night, is it?” The smile it earns him is tired and adorable. Later, it’ll be sarcastic, reluctant, small. Right now it’s unfiltered, and it’s … it’s great.

 

“Fuckin’ love you,” Bruce murmurs, hand sliding from his face to go around the back of his neck. “P’fairy.”

 

He’s held.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **story contains potentially vivid mentions of rape and dialogue of rape in flashbacks. potential self-harm through the use of a fucking machine. please read carefully**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **prompt: "history"**

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

 

The first heat since the Cave crashes into him like a wave, three weeks and four days after Rhodey had found him in the desert and brought him home.

 

Tony doesn’t even notice how hot he’s gotten until he goes to swipe an image from his tablet, and his finger slides useless over the screen, leaving a trail of sweat in its wake. He stares at it for a moment, completely uncomprehending, until a pulse of cramping pain briefly encompasses his lower back.

 

_“Shit.”_

He has numbers. Loads of numbers. An endless round of them that belong to extremely intoxicating, extremely beautiful, extremely discreet Alphas whose knots he’s all taken at least once before. Alphas who know him, who know how to use him, how he likes to be held down, how he likes to talk and joke and scream while they fuck him even after they’ve expanded. They’re all professional, all know what they’re doing, and the memories his body has of them are fond.

 

He can’t get the words out of his mouth to have JARVIS call a single one of them. The reactor is too fragile, too dangerous for just anyone to see. To touch.

 

It’s happened sometimes; sometimes a heat will hit him on a bad week, when he’s too locked in the melancholy of his past and the hatred of himself to want a stranger’s hands, no matter how determined to his pleasure, to touch him. They’re bad heats, either encouraged by the dip in his mind or born from it, where he gets so desperate that he’ll walk the edge of calling _anyone_ , taking it from _anyone_ who can just make it _stop._ For those times, there’s Rhodey. Rhodey who doesn’t really like men, but will fuck Tony anyway that he likes, for as long as he likes, to calm him down. To help him get his head on right. Rhodey who won’t touch him for longer than he needs but will tell him how great he is, that anyone who thinks he’s a bad person isn’t worth the air they breathe to say the words. Rhodey who’s an Alpha, who snarls when he thinks Tony is too far gone to hear him, who swears he’s always going to be there when Tony needs him. His best friend, who’s already seen the reactor in his chest. Who understands.

 

Except he can’t call Rhodey right now, either, because Rhodey’s mad at him for dropping SI’s weapons manufacturing.

 

Tony tells himself that’s why he doesn’t call anyone. The reactor.

 

Not the voices in his head; not the subdued memories of the Cave. It’s the reactor. He has to protect the reactor.

 

(He spends the heat curled in on himself on the floor of the corner of the lab, the bots driven away by the sounds of his growing desperation. His hips pump forward and backward to empty nothing, sliding against the floor in unused, chilled slick, as his mind spirals further and further downward to find some visual, memorized stimulation to dull the edge. All he has, all he can so clearly remember, are memories of the Cave. Dry, uncaring hands. No knots, not worth it, just thrusts of blood and the burn of unwanted, degrading cum on his skin – whore, omega, murderer. He hates himself, he hates himself, he hates himself-).

 

 

* * *

 

 

Two months later, he kills Obadiah. But not before the man makes a comment of the videos he had received in update of how _good of a job_ Tony had done as an omega for those men.

 

* * *

 

 

Tony goes five months without another. It confirms that he’d broken himself in the Cave, letting himself be used as they had. He’s a broken omega, and he’s dying, and it’s wonderful. Terribly selfish, but wonderful.

 

He blames quiet Alpha Natalie Rushman for setting it off on the six month mark. She’s the only new variable in his life; it has to be her fault.

 

He locks himself in the workshop again and banishes the bots to their charging stations to spare them their traumatizing worry, promises himself as his mind begins to slip under that he’ll make it up to them, go a whole day without threatening to send any one of them to the mercy of destructive undergrads.

 

He knows that he can call Rhodey now. They’ve made up, Rhodey’s not mad anymore, Rhodey could bring him through this heat as gently or as viciously as Tony wants. Rhodey will _listen_ , won’t do anything that Tony asks him not to no matter how far into lust he falls. Rhodey’s a good man, his best friend, he can trust Rhodey to touch him, to guide him down, to knot him-

 

He arches on the floor hard enough that his head slams into the wall. _Nonononononono_

“Mr. Stark?”

 

Tony freezes, eyes snapping open.

 

Natalie Rushman stands just inside the workshop door, her perfect body tense and nostrils flaring, pretty green eyes flashing over his still-clothed body before settling on his face. He’d given her the codes, he’d forgotten. She’s here.

 

And she wants him. He can see it instantly, recognizes the expression even though it’s been months since he’s last seen it. She wants him. She’s right here, and she wants him, and does it count as calling for an Alpha if they come to you first? It’s one step out of the way, all he has to do is invite her over, and she’ll mount him, _he knows._

His hips roll hungrily at the mere thought of being underneath her, of finally being taken and filled by an Alpha – slick gushes from his opening in anticipation, and he whines low in his throat at the pleasurable sensation, almost sobs from it. Closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see it.

 

“Mr. Stark?” Natalie repeats carefully. “Do you need help?”

 

_Yes,_ his mind screams. The slick is surprisingly hot against the backs of his thighs, trails warmth down to the floor. Fresh, new. _Yes, yes, yes, yes._

He hears her foot scrape against the floor; a step forward.

 

And immediately his body seizes.

 

_(“Do you like that, Stark?” “Hungry for it.” “Ass eating me up.” “Choke on mine.” “He wants it. Look how much he wants it.”)_

_“Stop!”_

He screams it – he doesn’t mean to scream it. It tears out of his throat like a burst of the fire of his heat burning inside of his body. _Why?_ He pays her, she won’t hurt him, it’d be counterproductive to her paycheck, she won’t hurt him.

 

He doesn’t hear another step and rolls away from her in agonizing relief.

 

“… How can I help?” Natalie is an Alpha, but she says it so softly, so cautiously. As if she’s actually concerned. He wishes he could tell her to fuck him. He tries.

 

_“Leave,”_ he stresses pitifully. God, he hates himself. He listens to her leave, hears JARVIS seal the door.

 

(He spends this heat exactly like the last, only now the wetness doesn’t stop pouring from his body, as if it still holds hope that she’ll return, or mourns that he’s lost the chance. So he writhe in lukewarm slick, drags his cock against the unforgiving, unhelpful floor and makes his body starve. He’s not as cold as last time, and it’s worse. He blames that he’s dying).

 

* * *

 

 

Tony doesn’t die. Natalie Rushman is superspy Natasha Romanoff is still an Alpha who joins the ranks of Alphas who have decided he’s not good enough.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s Pepper.

 

Pepper is gorgeous. Pepper is bright. Pepper is efficient. Pepper is a Beta.

 

With her, it can be okay. He trusts Pepper more than any other person on this planet.

 

Tony slips into his third heat in his sleep, a year after Afghanistan, and it’s only her slim, warm hand sliding over his shoulder that wakes him up to experience it.

 

If oil were spilled on top of the ocean, what he feels inside of his body when he opens his eyes to the heat and her expectant, smiling face would be the equivalent of swimming beneath it. Surrounded, hot without burning, lit up and waiting for the break that will allow him a puff of air to his lungs. Pepper leans in, brushes a not-unwelcome kiss against his cheek, brushes the back of her hand over his forehead.

 

“Hey,” she whispers, sounding happy. Happy for him, he realizes. The breaks in his heats have worried her. She doesn’t know about the two before. Pepper is such a good person. So much more than he’s ever deserved.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs back, can’t help but grin a little as her smile grows wider because Pepper is so damned beautiful when she’s smiling. He loves the look of her when she’s happy like this, he can’t help but push a strand of her ginger hair from her face and over her shoulder. He shivers a little when she leans into his touch. “Sorry I’m getting the bed wet,” he adds ruefully; Pepper laughs softly against him, teases another kiss.

 

“It’s okay.”

 

They’re still clothed. Tony’s never said anything one way or another, about how willing or not he is to have sex, yet Pepper, for some God-given reason, has never assumed that he wants to, in spite of the history of his sexual exploits that tabloids have been printing since the day he had turned eighteen. She’s come to bed every night that they’re together in pajama pants and a shirt stolen from his dresser, does nothing except raise an eyebrow at him, challenging him to say a word of her choice. He never has – it makes his stomach twist in nauseating pleasure, seeing her in his clothes.

 

His mind starts to go hazy as the effects of the heat begin to swarm in, and without meaning to he pushes slightly against her, feeling a sense of need he hasn’t in over a year, legitimate, curious over desperate. Pepper hums contentedly, stroking his face.

 

“Please?” He hears himself asking.

 

“Oh, Tony. Of course. Of course.”

 

Pepper strips – she’s glorious nude, a sight to behold, and he’s able to shrug off the sense of unease in his chest before it builds. It’s just nerves. He’s nervous. He hasn’t done this in a while. And this is _Pepper_. He _can’t_ fuck things up with _Pepper._ It’s alright. He’s fine.

 

She pulls at his pants, leaves his shirt by some unspoken agreement that makes him lose his breath. He could love her. A surge of lust spikes through him, wetness spurting from him in a gush. He could.

 

“Pep,” he breathes in an attempt to tell her, but she shushes him with a finger against his lips and then, slowly, replaces it with her own lips.

 

For the first time, he moans. Thinks to himself, _yes. This is it. With her. With Pepper this is it._

Her nails rake down his sides gently, and like she says, it’s okay.

 

They skip back up the sides of his legs, and like she says, it’s okay.

 

Her mouth touches his neck, and like she says, it’s okay.

 

His hips reach, just a little more, and like she says, _it’s okay_.

 

Her fingers, gentle and timid, slow enough to give him time to react if he wants to, slip beneath the band of his briefs.

 

_(“It will be okay, Stark,” Yinsen says in the middle of the night, hours later. “It will end eventually. You can ride it out.”)_

Tony doesn’t say no, and her hand slips lower.

 

He doesn’t ask her to stop, tries to kiss her instead.

 

He doesn’t say anything at all.

 

He doesn’t remember what it is he does, exactly, only that it has to be something, because one minute he’s under Pepper with her hand slowly making its way toward his gushing, eager entrance-

 

And the next he’s at the door, breathing so hard that it hurts, not breathing enough that lights are sparkling like mad in front of his eyes, and Pepper is still on the bed. Her hand on her cheek, watching him with wide, slightly terrified eyes.

 

Fuck. Oh fuck. What had he done?

 

“Sorry,” is all he can choke out. “Pe- Pep- Sorry, I’m _sorry_.”

 

“Tony,” she calls anxiously; his heart breaks when the movement of her jaw makes her wince. “Tony, no, wait-.”

 

He’s out the door.

 

(JARVIS relays Pepper’s apologies as he once again finds shelter in his corner on the floor. He’s too far gone to spare the bots, and halfway through, DUM-E drops a grease-stained blanket over his body, chirps in concern and doesn’t leave. Tony threatens him with everything – the bot’s camera reminds him too strongly of the surveillance in the Cave. They’d watched him, he knows, why is he so _broken?_ )

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t give Pepper another chance to drag herself down with him. She’s better than him. Deserves better than him. He takes off for New York and leaves her to the CEO duties of SI that she loves so much. Maybe with him gone, Happy will stand a chance. He hopes they work.

 

* * *

 

 

Tony builds the machine in New York; it’s embarrassing, humiliating, and he hopes that he won’t need it. After the disaster with Pepper, it’s almost as if his body has gone cold. He feels no stirrings, no desires, no warmth of any kind. Nothing from the past, nothing the textbooks and journals say an omega body should experience. His body. Useless without the armor. So he uses the armor to help build his tower. Uses the paranoia born from lack of sleep the machine.

 

It’s a stupid hope.

 

Life’s a bitch, and Tony has done so many horrible things with his that he deserves the ironic horror of going into heat two years to the day of waking up in the Cave.

 

The new workshop has corners, but they’re not the same. The floors are tile instead of cement; his stupid Something New! hyper brain had tried to make it futuristic; maybe he’d thought it would help cancel the need. Maybe he’d thought someplace so radically different from the Cave, cold and shiny and clean, would stop the heats all together. He’d been wrong, so extremely wrong – he hates being wrong.

 

His mind knows the machine is there. Knows it can go fast, deep – knows it can fucking _knot_. And that’s all that matters, the idea of a knot. Of being tied to something, of being _filled, full._ It’s all it takes – he’s soaking before he’s even stood up from the stool.

 

“J, Protocol Blackout,” he gasps out as his knees wobble under the weight of his body. His feet move of their own accord; the machine is in the back, in the middle of the shadowed wall, right underneath the air conditioner vent. It’ll be cold, a wet cold. The Cave had been dry; hot in the day, cold at night. This will be cold. He’ll be cold, it’ll be different.

 

This close to something, his body is wracked in waves of need so strong that he nearly seizes in pain the only doubles when he reaches it. It takes every effort in the world to disrobe.

 

Tony misses the hands of lovers, who have done this for him. He wants to remain completely clothed, wants this to just not be a thing at all. He wants to be knotted again and again until it’s satiated. Until it goes away. He wants to be normal and just left alone.

 

“Sir…” JARVIS begins cautiously, trails off. With the bots still in Malibu, the AI’s voice seems out of place. He pushes it out, and bends over the cushioned block he’s installed at the front of the machine. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

_It’ll go fast_ , he reminds himself. Fast knots meant fast heat. He _needs_ it to go fast.

 

“I don’t wanna hear it, JARVIS,” he snarls. “Initiate and mute.”

 

Clasps immediately latch around his wrists and ankles; a cushioned bar molds around his neck with just enough give not to choke. Fluid pumps from his body in overwhelming excitement. The machine hums to life behind him. He’s wet enough that there will be no problem.

 

_Oh, God._

With only one warning tap, it slams in, and Tony cries out. It retracts, and slams in again.

 

There’s no break. The machine is as merciless as he had programmed it to be.

 

_(“Whore for it.”)_

_(“Ha, how you look with me on your face.”)_

_(“Do you need more? I will give it to you, Stark.”)_

_(“Suck it. You want a knot? Suck it.”)_

The voices are loud, immediate. He closes his eyes and they’re standing there, the men from the Cave,  he’s killed them but they’re there. Surrounding him, using him, letting him break himself.

 

_(“No knot. Do you think you’re worth it?”)_

_(“I taste the pain of your victims in your slick, Stark.”)_

_(“Maybe we’ll stop. Maybe you don’t want this enough.”)_

_(“Say thank you.”)_

Dumb idea. Stupid idea. The restraints are unyielding, he can’t move, can’t make it stop. His body burns with pleasure as he’s bruised, as they jeer around him. He’s hot.

 

“Stop,” he pleads, even though it won’t. JARVIS can’t interfere, no matter how he begs. He needs this, it needs to be done. His body needs this. “Stop, please. Stop.”

 

_(“Bad at this.”)_

_(“Disappointing.”)_

_(spurts of hot liquid on his back)_

_(strong dry hands around his throat, laughter in his ears)_

The machine switches, pumps violently, slowly, beginning to swell. Stop, stop, stop.

 

It’s knotting. His body is **singing**. It’s knotting. He’s being knotted. Finally. Finally a knot.

 

"Stop."

 

_(“You are worth nothing more than the weapons I want.”)_

_(“I will fuck you until you cum, and I will mark you, and you will make them.”)_

It locks. He stands in his own slick.

 

He hasn’t cum. Shivering, busting apart as the machine hums inside of his body, he doesn’t even care.

 

The fire inside of his body quells for the first time, but tears are burning under the lids of his eyes.

 

_(“It will be alright, Tony Stark,” Yinsen soothes from the other cot. He doesn’t try to touch Tony. He never tries to touch Tony. “One way or another, you will make it through this.”)_

The restraints stay locked in place. The machine is programmed for up to another three rounds, depending on his body.

 

_(“I will give you what you need.”)_

(Tony begins to sob in the middle of the second set. The voices have become feelings, nothing distinguishable to his ears, but he feels every word the same as he had when they’d each been delivered. His body is traveling on a satisfied high, but his mind is hemorrhaging; he’s breathing, but he can’t. When the restraints finally fall apart, when the machine back away, he stumbles to the ground and stays there. JARVIS murmurs at him, information on the weather, on the suits, on the statistic likelihood of every major disaster that could befall the Tower, each more unlikely than the next. It doesn’t silence the voices. But it does numb him a bit. The machine is a success and he wishes it had waited until he had died from the overload to stop).

 

* * *

 

 

It’s only a few weeks later that the Avengers become a thing. Tony, forcing smiles, doesn’t immediately realize that the reason Steve Rogers, biggest Alpha he’s ever met, doesn’t send him into hysterics outside of the armor is because the quiet omega that is Bruce Banner is always in the room when he’s bare.

 

Bruce is weird.

 

Tony likes him immediately.

 

* * *

 

 

“Doctor Banner.”

 

JARVIS’ voice is soft, almost reluctant, but Bruce is immediately awake at the break of noise in the silence of the night. His pillow goes one direction, his blanket another, and it’s only habit that keeps his heart rate down as he quickly scans his surroundings for exits.

 

“I am sorry. I did not mean to frighten you,” JARVIS continues gently. And Bruce, with a blink, breathes.

 

JARVIS. Tony. The Avengers. He’s in the Tower. He’s on the 54th floor of the Tower, in his room, in his bed. The only alternative exit is the large double-plated window that streams in the lights of Manhattan’s nighttime skyline. Possible, but he’d rather avoid jumping through it, if he can. Not that he needs to.

 

“’S’alright, JARVIS. My fault,” he yawns, scrubbing at his eyes as he slows down, reaching for the glasses on the counter. “Four months in, you’d think I’d remember where I am. What’s up? What time is it?” The sky is still black with night; he can’t have slept long.

 

“It is currently two-thirteen in the morning, and I do apologize for waking you, Doctor Banner, but Sir is in distress, and I believe that he requires your assistance.”

 

Bruce freezes. Tony. “What’s wrong?” He demands, jumping from the bed. He snatches a shirt from the floor, slips it on without care if it’s inside-out or backwards. “Is he sick? Was it something he had at dinner? Is it the arc reactor?”

 

“I am not at liberty to say.” The AI sounds apologetic, and not the least bit put-out by the fact. “However, I do believe that if Sir continues on his intended course of action in his current state, he will cause severe damage to himself.”

 

_Damn it, Tony_. “I’ll see what I can do to stop him, JARVIS,” he slides from his room and straight to the elevator, not quite running but at a pace faster than a walk. “But he’s never let me into the workshop before. I’m not sure if-.”

 

“I will permit your access in this case, Doctor Banner.”

 

The doors slide closed.

 

Bruce’s heart begins to race again at the sight of his silent reflection.

 

It had been a bad idea, becoming friends with Tony Stark as fast as he has, he knows. The other Omega is impatient, not so much careless as unconcerned with his own personal safety. His mind is stunning, quick and scattered without being lost – together, it’s a dangerous combination, like watching a lit fuse dance too close to a barrel of gunpowder; one flicker in the wrong direction, and it’s gone. Tony is accepting, welcoming, orbits around Bruce like there’s nothing to be scared of, and even aside from the Hulk he should be, because he’s scared of everyone else. He’s seen him flinch back from every movement of Steve’s, not matter if they’re intended for him or not. He’s watched him flat out avoid Natasha, disappearing from any room she’s in, even if he’d been there first. Bruce would be tempted to tack it Traditional Omega training – respecting Alpha’s, being submissive to them – if it hadn’t been that he’s the same with Clint, keeping space between himself and the friendly Beta. And yet he never shies away from Bruce, arguably the most dangerous of the group. Seeks him out, jokes with him, teases him. They talk too much, huddle too close, share too much for it to just be an Omega trait.

 

Four months and they’re close enough to scare the hell out of him.

 

The doors slide open, straight into the lab, and Bruce is slapped in the face with the scent of heat.

 

The stirring of the Hulk at the overwhelming pheromones is almost enough to send Bruce back up the stairs out of concern for his friend, when a second glance shows him exactly what it is that has enraptured Tony’s influenced attention.

 

Large, sleek and silver and red with table at the perfect height to bend over, it can only be described as a _fucking machine_. Nothing comfortable about it, nothing welcoming in its design – clearly intended to do nothing more but roughly plow into its intended target until its program has run its course.

 

It’s horrifying to look at, and Bruce can’t stop the startled squeak the escapes his throat as his breath catches.

 

“Nice, right?” Tony asks tonelessly without turning – he’s either heard Bruce enter, or JARVIS had admitted his arrival. “It’s made to fuck an omega into blissful oblivion. It knots. Isn’t it great? It has restraints, bars that hold you in place so you can’t get away. It fucks you and fucks you and knots you no matter how many times you say no.” The chuckle that follows the words sounds twisted and wrong. “You can’t fight it, you can’t hurt it, and it, technically, can’t hurt you. At least not emotionally, but what’s a little blood? Win-win for everyone. It even goes fast, no breaks – gets the heat over quicker. Amazing, isn’t it?”

Bruce swallows against himself, and steps forward, reaching out to place his hand on his friend’s quivering shoulder.

 

“You’ve used this before,” he realizes, pained by the thought.

 

“Once,” he admits quietly, still with his back to Bruce. “A few weeks before New York. I can’t … my heats are insane, there’s no schedule, they just come. And I can’t … I can’t let anyone … I hit Pepper, when we tried. I’d probably hit Rhodey, too. All I can see … All I can hear are … all of them Bruce, that’s all. Every time, it’s like they’re right here. Right beside me, touching me, _inside of me.”_

The Hulk growls in his head, and Bruce has to shut his eyes against the rage of it. Tony’s told him the stories, late at night in the lab, drunk on no sleep and no small amount of alcohol. The continued injustice is that those men are already dead.

 

“This way, I get what I need and I can’t run away from it. It’s what I designed it for.” He breathes deep, the movement shaking Bruce’s hand from his shoulder. “You should probably leave, lima bean. It’s not exactly pretty.”

 

But it should be. Surrendering to heat, losing yourself – it’s meant to be a pretty. Gorgeous.

 

When you want it. When you can have it. Bruce can see his own tension in the lines of Tony’s shoulders. The machine is a monster, and Tony doesn’t want it.

 

This time, he grabs Tony’s wrist gently before he starts to move.

 

“What,” he starts slowly, “if I told you there’s another way to give your body relief, other than this?”

 

“I can’t have se-.”

 

“Trust me,” he begs without right. “There are other ways, Tony. A lot of people – Omegas, Betas, even Alphas – don’t like sex. There are alternatives to quelling a heat with a knot.”

 

Tony blinks at him, only half aware, and then slumps against him without warning. Trust or exhaustion.

 

Bruce will take either if it means keeping the other omega off of the machine.

 

* * *

 

 

It feels like drowning.

 

“Don’t want it,” Tony hears himself say. “Don’t want it, don’t want it.”

 

“Then you won’t get it,” comes the assuring, gentle response. “Shh, Tony. Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want.”

 

“Need it,” he protests, even though his body feels only pleasantly warm, the fire that had been building earlier muted. The slick still falls, but it’s not as much as it’s been before. “Need … something.”

 

Fingers trail over his spine, dip across his thighs, smooth carefully up his ribs. Tiny trails of pleasure dance up his spine, soothe the cramping in his stomach. He wants to melt into it.

 

“Shh,” someone – Bruce – hums above him. “Just like that. There you go. Feels better than the machine, doesn’t it?”

 

It does.

 

They hadn’t touched him like this. Numbed the heat in his body with fingers on the parts of his skin that had ached the most. They hadn’t been this gentle. This unexpectant.

 

“They’re going to hurt me,” he recognizes aloud – Steve. Natasha. Even Clint. They’re just upstairs, only a few floors from him. Alphas come first, when they smell the heat. The come first and they take first and then the Betas. Betas get sloppy seconds in the Cave. “They’re gonna come, Bruce.”

 

“No one’s going to hurt you, Tony.” A nose nuzzles against his neck, and that’s nice. “I promise.” The fingers drift over the backs of his knees. “I will literally rip them apart if they try.”

 

“… Are you mad?” It seems important to ask, for some reason.

 

“Not at you.”

 

“Okay.” His face rubs against something soft; Bruce’s curls. Tony almost smiles. He likes Bruce’s curls. “I don’t want them hurt me.”

 

“I promise,” Bruce swears.

 

It’s a nice thought.

 

The touches aren’t sexual – they don’t tickle over his cock, don’t so much as graze his ass. But they’re calming, satisfying in a way they shouldn’t be, because there’s nothing inside of it. It’s so wonderful that he feels like this with nothing inside of him.

 

“They never came in me,” he confesses suddenly, a wave of confusion crashing on him. He thinks Bruce’s chest stops moving, but the fingers don’t, and that’s all that matters. “They’d always pull out, mark my back. Or my face. I think I broke myself. Alphas want to breed Omegas, right? Unless they’re broken. They said I was bad.”

 

The other omega makes a wounded noise. “You’re not broken, Tony. You didn’t do anything, not to yourself. They did. All of it, everything was their fault.”

 

“I think of it, when I’m in heat. Think of how they felt inside of me. How good it was, for the first few minutes. I think about it, and it arouses me. What’s wrong with me, Bruce?"

 

_(“It will be okay, Stark. It will end eventually. You can ride it out.”)_

 

He’s nuzzled again instead of verbally answered. It feels so much better than words.

 

Bruce is an omega, just like Tony. His touch shouldn’t be this nice, this relaxing.

 

Tony nuzzles back, content and confused.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, as a title, _Omega_ is generally capitalized. Until Afghanistan, Tony used to think of it as "Omega", as worthy as the other two.
> 
> He'll be okay one day.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **prompt: "handwritten"**

* * *

 

 

There were autobiographies written by famous authors that said they had been introduced to their best stories through their dreams. Interviews where they would each say, in their own words, that their muse had walked through the fog of their sleep and stood in front of them, fully formed and waiting. Dreams where their muse – their _character_ – would begin to spill out their stories in perfect detail, from start to finish, in the setting of that story’s world. They had chosen, every author said. The story had chosen them to tell the world.

 

It was a nice sentiment.

 

At thirty-four, Bruce had never had that dream.

 

Ten years of college, one PhD in English, four run-out jobs, and well over a million words, and he had nothing to show for any of his work outside of interspersed publications in literary magazines that hardly paid enough for a week’s of light groceries, let alone that did anything for his name. He’d been cocky as a youth, sure of his talent – the glee he’d obtained from the praise of his teachers and the high marks on his college papers had been smug. Of course he was good. Of course he was. The best. He’d be a best-selling author before he’d hit thirty. His books would be read by all ages, adored by everyone enlightened enough to understand his thoughts, adapted into movies that would turn over millions. For thirty seconds he’d be the next Stephen King, and then he’d overthrow him.

 

Now, Bruce was just … empty.

 

Spread out on the unvacuumed floor of his studio apartment, black-ink pen perched precariously in the dip of his lips, he stared at the popcorn balls littering his ceiling, half-heartedly counting every crease in paint that each of them made. His head hurt, a low ache pulsing under his left ear down to his neck and back up; his glasses were too heavy on his face, cold from the air conditioner instead of heated from his skin; the internet bill was splayed over the top of the kitchen table like a freshly-skinned kill, covering the unopened electric bill; his laptop rested on the coffee table, Firefox minimized to hide yet another message from his cousin, his word processor responsibly alive, opened full screen, and blank; the deadline was in four hours, and the document was blank.

 

It didn’t really matter. The magazine had made it clear they weren’t relying on the piece. He’d either turn it in on time, have his story printed in a tiny column toward the end of the pages that no one would read, or he wouldn’t, and his story wouldn’t exist at all for no one to read, anyway.

 

“I,” he said aloud to the ceiling, dragging the word as the pen tipped from his lips and to the floor. There were no tears of frustration, no screams of annoyance muffled into pillows. Frankly, he was long past that. “Am not good at this.”

 

He closed his eyes. Tried not to think of Jennifer’s concerned twenty-third message of “ _We’re worried. You’re hardly doing anything, Bruce. Mom thinks you should see a doctor for depression.”_

Not where he’d imagined his life at all.

 

 ** _What would it be like to only be able to experience life through a body-suit of iron?_** his mind suddenly asked, random and faint.

 

With a groan, Bruce rolled over, mashing the pen and his face into the carpet as he grumbled back, “It would suck.”

 

Like life did now.

 

* * *

 

 

The machine at Red-Eye Cure broke down three hours before his shift was supposed to start, and so he went in.

 

“We should just get a new one,” Clint muttered as Bruce walked in through the back door. Co-owner of the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, the blonde looked even more tired than Bruce felt, the scowl on his face as he glared at the silver coffee maker only enunciating the bags under his eyes. In spite of himself, Bruce couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.

 

“Natasha likes this one,” he reminded softly, gently pushing the shorter man away. Clint groused at the manhandling, but obediently moved out of the way for Bruce’s hands to soothe across the cool metal siding of it. “Go use the backup before you get a line of grouchy customers. I’ll fix it.”

 

“And I’ll clock you in.” Clint agreed, already backing up to the other machine and the patiently waiting customer. “You can grab a few extra hours. Nat’ll kill us both she catches you doing free labor again, anyway.”

 

Bruce snorted, already popping the top off of the machine.

 

The insides were unnaturally cool, almost feeling dead beneath the gentle prodding of his fingers as he searched for the problem. It was an old machine, not originally built from scratch but all-but now, haphazard in its balance and questionable in its ability to sustain its life. If stories were to be believed, Natasha’s father had built it during her childhood, and she’d brought it to the shop upon on his death. So despite its tendency to constantly break down, and Clint’s endless mistrust and dislike of its existence, it certainly wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“What’s wrong with you today, huh?” He questioned it softly, reaching further as he stretched to kick the stool close enough to step on. “It’s coffee time. You love coffee time.”

 

“I can hear you,” Clint sang as Bruce stepped up to get a good look inside. “Coffee machine whisperer.” The customer chuckled as they were handed their coffee and left.

 

He ignored them both, peering inside. The cross of tubing and gears looked as lifeless as the thing felt.

 

 ** _Needs a heart,_** his mind supplied helpfully as he poked lightly at the tubes again.

 

The fuck?

 

**_Blue’s a good color for a heart. Bright. Futuristic. Hopeful? This bucket of bolts could use some hope. Hopeful heart. Oh, poetic._ **

****

Bruce shook his head, stepping down from the stepstool. As he did, the gleaming _silver_ of the machine seemed to shift gold and red in a trick of the light, a thump of color.

 

 ** _Like a heartbeat!_** Came the cheerful addition.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled to himself, bewildered. The machine was silver again.

 

“No, Bruce, see, we _want_ it to talk.” Clint approached again, wiping his hands on a dishtowel with a smirk. He tilted his head. “Figure it out? It’s, uh, not _actually_ dead, is it?”

 

Bruce shook his head again, remnants of the strange thoughts dying away to the presence of his manager. “I couldn’t find – Clint.” His eyes fell to the floor, and with the next move he scooped up the machine’s power cord, heavy in his hand and decidedly _not_ in the outlet. “Really?”

 

Clint snatched it up. “Sorry. I mopped. I forgot. I’m seriously sorry, man. I – do you want to take a break? Chill until your shift starts?” The blonde was flushing, fumbling with the cord as he plugged it in – the machine immediately began to hum. “The bookstore’s open. I can call you? Or, hell, you have enough time to go back home for a bit if you want.”

 

**_It wouldn’t need plugged in with a supercharged blue heart of futuristic hope._ **

****

Something curious pulled inside of Bruce’s gut.

 

“Actually.” His gaze swept over the near-empty café, falling to the booth in the back, so secluded that it was hardly sat at. “I’ll … hang out here, I think. Natasha gonna mind if I steal some paper from the printer?”

 

Clint raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but shrugged. “Mind? You? That’s funny. Knock yourself out. Yell when you want some coffee.”

 

_**Energy.** _

****

“Clock me out,” he said absently, already moving to grab the paper.

 

“Um, no?”

 

* * *

 

 

Twelve sheets of printer paper sat on the kitchen table, bills pushed to the floor to make room for them to spread out. Twelve sheets, covered front-to-back in blue lettering of his handwriting, a pollution of random sentences and detailed thoughts of iron body armor of red and gold and electronic hearts and a future that needed a kickstart. What would it be like to only experience the world from inside of an iron suit?

 

 _Why_ would _anyone_ only be able to experience the world through an iron suit?

 

Bruce scrubbed his fingers through his hair. His shift had seemed longer than usual, with the papers tucked into his locker.

 

Why would the iron suit be red and gold? Ostentatious over-kill?

 

**_Harsh. It wasn’t my idea._ **

****

“Then whose was it?” He asked aloud without thinking. “Your mother’s?”

 

There was no response, but somehow Bruce already knew that answer was ‘no’. Whoever was inside of the iron suit didn’t have a mother – no mother would allow their child to suffer a life outside of physical sensation.

 

No physical sensation-

 

He snatched a pen up from the floor and made a note in the corner of one of the pages – _isn’t touched skin-to-skin._ It had to be lonely. The person in the suit wasn’t alone, per say – there were people on the planet, impossible to avoid being around. But the person couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be held, probably had no idea what a genuine hug from another person felt like. A sort of solitary confinement, a lack of any sort of intimacy; it could turn a person mad-

 

Bruce froze.

 

“What the fuck am I doing?” He breathed, staring down at the notes. Any more writing, and he’d need more paper. _More paper._ This was _long_. This was just twelve pages of notes – ideas, imagined scenarios, details of a suit that worked like life-support, sketched schematics of a blue electric heart that had components similar to Red-Eye’s coffee machine. He didn’t _do_ this. He did … _small_ pieces. Tiny writing. Two-thousand words and under, and this … this was so much _more_ than that.

 

He dropped the pen, automatically swallowing a sickening numbness of knowledge. This was long; novel-long. A _series_ of novel _s_ long.

 

 _I can’t write a book_. Holy shit. _I can’t even write a drabble of words for a magazine. I’m bad at this, I cannot. Write. A book._

_What the fuck do you think you’re even doing, Banner?_

He jerked away from the table, chair scrapping across the abandoned bills.

 

It was only seven at night, but he was going to bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Bruce didn’t dream of suits of iron flying through skies over solar-powered buildings and rolling fields of green. He didn’t see happy people of the future all grinning and laughing and driving flying cars or shooting through tunnels from one location to another miraculously without accidents. He liked _Meet the Robinsons_ as much as the next person, but that realism didn’t exist in his mind.

 

The images of his nightmare weren’t clear-cut. There were more flashes of red than gold. There were beams of light accompanied by high-pitched whines that sounded reluctant and sad, like the cries of children in an active warzone who needed to scream more than they needed to stay hidden. A lot of it was dark, with only the sensation of some claustrophobic fear attempting to suffocate him. He couldn’t feel the cold, but he knew it wasn’t warm. There was no sun in the sky. And there hadn’t been for a long while.

 

When he woke up, he didn’t shoot up from the bed, gasping for breath and desperate for reassurance. Regular nightmares had long since stolen that reaction, worn it down to the bone and left it exposed. No, he woke up on a steady exhale, blinking to the moon’s softly illuminated darkness, stretched on the pull-out bed with the sheets of paper a dozen feet away.

 

Damn.

 

* * *

 

 

He indulged in thirty-minute, steaming hot showers once a month, budgeted it in to keep the anxiety of it from eating at his stomach. Even then, it still nibbled.

 

The water cascaded across his skin in rivers shifted by the old scars on his back, just shy of scalding but enough to cause a slightly unpleasant burn. He relished the sensation, ducked his head beneath the spray again and again just to soak through it.

 

**_I mean, I knew you were hot, but … fuck._ **

****

Bruce jolted so hard he almost slipped on the tile.

 

**_Naked, you are like, superhot. Ten out of ten, would fucking bang … is that redundant? Fucking bang? Would fuck? Or is that overusing fuck?_ **

****

“The fuck?” Bruce choked out, whipping around. There was no one else in the shower.

 

**_Well, if it wasn’t being overused before, maybe it is now. We should go ten minutes without saying fuck. Okay. I would bang you. Hard. So fuc-damn hard. And endless. You look like you could get laid. I would very much be willing to help you get laid. My method would be my cock._ **

****

He threw open the shower curtain. But again, there was no one there.

 

**_Superhot, but clearly not super-smart._ **

****

“Who the hell-.”

 

**_That’s insulting. You dream about a guy and you don’t even recognize his voice? I’ve never even done that._ **

****

Dream…?

 

Oh.

 

Oh, shit.

 

The _story._

 

**_Uh, yeah. The story. The one on your kitchen table that you haven’t touched in like, twelve hours, despite all those thoughts running rampant through your enormous and scarily creative brain. Again with the insults._ **

****

“I’m … talking to myself,” he mumbled, absently reaching for the handle to twist off the water flow. “More than usual. I’m talking _with_ myself.” His aunt would have a field day. He wondered if it was a sign of depression.

 

 ** _Like I said._** Bruce didn’t hear the sigh so much as he felt it, as if it were inside his own chest. **_Not so much the super-smart. Depression? Must be a morning thing. Fuck it. And fuck the no-fuck thing, I don’t think I can do that when talking to you like this. Like I seriously cannot communicate with you without saying fuck. Come over here._**

****

He took a breath, shivering under a gust of cold air against his dripping skin. In for a penny – “Come … where?”

 

**_Ha. All over me. Nono! I’m just kidding. Shit. Sorry. Come to the mirror. You don’t have to c- fine, grab a towel, but come to the mirror. I’ll show you ‘talking to yourself’, I mean, geezus, you’d think you’d never done this before. Oops. Clear it off._ **

****

“Done _what?_ ” Bruce muttered, confused and cold and feeling ridiculous as he did what the voice in his head snarked at him to do (a notch in the ‘insane’ column, totally. If he did this for a few more weeks, no matter what becomes of it, he’d get a plea deal).

 

**_Um, write?_ **

****

He swept his fingers over the fogged mirror, clearing away the distortion to a crystal-clear image of himself.

 

Standing half-covered in gleaming red and gold armor, half a futuristic-blue light on his chest, a mask with an intimidating face shielding half of his own.

 

 _Iron Man._ He knew it, just like that. Iron Man.

 

**_Yeah. Iron Man._ **

****

* * *

 

 

**_So. Sorry I didn’t appear in a dream, or whatever. I didn’t really take etiquette classes._ **

****

Bruce kept his hands steady as he held the porcelain cup of coffee under the machine, watching the liquid carefully dot the foam.

 

**_Not so sorry for seeing you naked, though. As I said. Ten out of ten._ **

****

“Inappropriate,” he growled lowly, cautiously setting the cup on the waiting tray before reaching for another. Red-Eye was growing busy – even Natasha, usually safe in her office to keep from frightening customers, was manning the floor.

 

**_Remember what I said about etiquette classes? I meant never. I’ve never taken them. For anything._ **

****

That much was obvious. A crass man in a suit of iron that … flew. Bruce was certain, somehow, that it flew. Had it flown in the nightmare?

 

**_Yes, it flies. Also. Okay, that was not a nightmare._ **

****

“It really was,” he hissed, adding the next cup to the tray and nudging it toward Clint, who was eying him oddly. Too loud, maybe.

 

**_It wasn’t … meant to be._ **

****

Iron Man’s tone changed. Less vulgar, less teasing. Almost … hurt. The deep wounded hurt that Bruce was all-too familiar with.

 

Clint relayed another order, and Bruce’s hand reached for a large styrofoam cup instead, sliding it expertly under the nozzle of the machine.

 

 ** _The world’s a vulnerable place_. ** He saw images he’d seen on the news on nights he couldn’t sleep – wars across the globe, innocent people dying the hands of greedy men with no compassion and too many guns. **_No._** First world countries with no human understanding and too much power, choosing who could live and who could die based on equations. **_Worse._** The sky above a large city, ripping itself open, monsters from the most indescribable horrors pouring out, destroying everything in their path, people slaughtered without regard to crimes or life.

 

He dropped a lid onto the coffee, handing it off to the waiting customer without actually looking, mind caught up in the visuals of a war he’d never seen.

 

**_I see a suit of armor around the world. Protecting it. Shielding it from the outside._ **

****

There had been no sun in his nightmare. No way to breathe.

 

“Sounds cold,” he responded softly. Iron Man snorted, sounding more bitter than condescending.

 

**_I’ve seen colder. The Earth needs protecting. Even if it doesn’t want it._ **

****

“Bruce?” Clint was waving a hand in front of him. “I need a large Chocolate Premium Rush, extra chips with two shots of cherry. To go.”

 

Bruce grabbed another styrofoam cup as the woman behind the counter beamed happily, unaware.

 

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

“So you’re a villain, then.”

 

Back at home; the laptop was still harboring an open Facebook page, and Jennifer was growing a little more desperate, as if it had been months instead of a week that he’d last spoken with her. The bills were still on the floor – he should probably look at them, undoubtedly their due date was fast approaching. But, as his pen tapped the paper on the table, new sheets stolen (with permission, she always knew) from Natasha’s printer, he found that all he could think about was making more notations. Building more of an impossible world and the man who wanted to surround it in suffocating iron.

 

**_Technically, it would be a titanium alloy, not iron. Like the suit. Titanium alloy, not iron._ **

****

“Why call yourself Iron Man, then?” Bruce mused, flipping the page to get more space. There would be a woman at a café, like the one from Red-Eye. Her son would hate Iron Man. Why?

 

**_Again, not my idea. Though I went along with it. Good theme song._ **

****

“Villains need good theme songs.” Villains also needed heroes, as a foil. Bruce wasn’t really prepared for another character. He wasn’t really prepared for _this_ character.

 

**_I don’t know if ‘villain’ is the right word, really. I want to make the world a better place._ **

****

“Ironically, so did Adolf Hitler. Didn’t really work for him, either.”

 

**_… Thanks._ **

****

Instant self-hatred, only some of which was actually his, flooded Bruce’s body. The pen slipped from his fingers in retribution.

 

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Ridiculous, talking to something that didn’t really exist. But Bruce could feel the tendrils of Iron Man’s despondency through his own veins. He felt … low. Wrong. “I didn’t mean it like that, I was making analogies. I’m … not exactly good with talking to people.”

 

 ** _You’re fine._** It sounded anything but. **_Maybe I am the villain. I mean, the world already has Captain America. They don’t exactly need another hero. And I’m not exactly the, you know, hero type._**

****

“You know about Captain America?” The revelation made Bruce pause. He didn’t own any of the popular comic books, money as tight as it was, but he’d read through them at the bookstore around the corner from Red-Eye. They were amazing, the Captain was phenomenal, and if he had the money he’d buy the entire series. “How?”

 

**_… Is that really a wall you want to break right now?_ **

****

The implication of fictional characters conversing with each other in a world outside of their pages immediately made Bruce’s head spin. “On second thought…”

 

**_Exactly, so hey. Let’s get back to me. So I’m a villain. Learn something new about yourself every day. Why am I a villain?_ **

****

“I- what?” He blinked rapidly at Iron Man’s subject change.

 

**_Why am I a villain? I mean, not why do you think I’m a villain, but why am I actually one? What do I do that makes me a bad guy?_ **

****

“I-.”

 

**_I mean, obviously I say ‘fuck’ a lot. And talk about fucking a lot, though in my defense, anyone who sees you naked would do the same. But really, I know another good guy who does those things, so … not that. Of course it’s not that. Do I kill someone? I try not to kill people, you know, outside of the ones who actually deserve it. And by ‘deserve’ I mean ‘people who would go on killing other people if they were allowed to live’ or ‘who would otherwise destroy all hope of peace and life on the planet’. Those people I kill. But … anyone would do that, right? Like if someone was holding a gun to a little kid, you’d kill the person with the gun, right? That’s what people would do._ **

****

Bruce was at a loss. Because his gut instinct to the scenario was to say _yes, I would do that_ , only … he’d look for another way first. He’d kill the person with the gun if he had to, but if there was another way…

 

He wasn’t sure that Iron Man would consider that option.

 

“God, this is such a bad idea,” he moaned, dropping his head on the paper with a heavy impact that made his teeth vibrate.

 

 ** _You okay there, Brucie-bear?_** And completely contradictory to his character, Iron Man sounded concerned again.

 

“I can’t do this. I can’t _do_ this. I’m not this kind of writer. Hell, I’m not really _any_ kind of writer. You should check out my work – it’s all nonsense, whimsical nothings that don’t _mean_ anything. People dismiss them before they even read them; they’re forgotten.” He groaned in frustration. _“I’m_ forgotten. They’re shoved in the back of magazines, okay? That’s what I write. Not … novel-length stories of a series of books about a complex man in a suit of iron-.”

 

**_Titanium alloy._ **

 

“ _-whatever._ The point is I _can’t_ write this story. I don’t have the skills, the _talent_ to do it any justice. You’re … damn it, Iron Man, you’re amazing, alright? You’re obviously a complex person, and all I’m doing is pulling off a layer of you and running with it. There’s _so much to your world_ , I can’t. I just … _fuck._ ”

 

Like the time before, Bruce shoved away from the table, a swell of pressure surging to the base of his neck; self-loathing of his own.

 

**_Bruce, no. Hey, wait._ **

****

“I’m honestly just not good enough to write this for you. Someone else will have to.”

 

* * *

 

 

The nightmare this time was different.

 

There was still the feeling of not being able to breathe. But there was nothing enclosing him.

 

Instead, it was almost like he was floating in the middle of the ocean, underneath the surface but not on the sands below. Surrounded by nothing but held under by something else. And there was pain, so much pain, right in the center of his chest. An empty, hard pain with a chill that froze his fingers, burned his throat – hotter than his showers. There was no one around; the loneliness was different. Final. He felt cheated instead of liberated. _I thought I’d feel liberated when it was time to die._

Also unlike last time, when Bruce woke up, it was with a panicked shout as he shot up, hands scrambling to his chest, trying to push into a hole that didn’t exist.

 

**_“It’s still there.”_ **

****

Iron Man, still wrapped in his armor, sat at the foot of the bed, helmet turned toward him, white eyes glowing. Red metallic fingers tapped softly against the glowing light in the middle of his chest.

 

 ** _“Blue futuristic heart of hope,”_** he said, robotic voice dry. **_“Runs on energy. Some people mistakenly refer to it as a battery. Neat, huh?”_**

****

Bruce sucked in a breath, and then another, and then another.

 

**_“Calm down, buddy. Just a dream.”_ **

****

_“Nightmare.”_

**_“Details.”_ **

****

“That … that was you. I dream-had a nightmare, about you. I … was you?” The pain had been so sharp, but so dull. Floating. “Dying?”

 

**_“Hole in the chest. I can’t remember if I was shot or if I’d gotten blown up or … there may have been a missile. I’m not sure. It’s not something I’d recommend going through.”_ **

****

“And yet you just put me through it.” His breathing was beginning to slow. Iron Man, continuing to watch him with eyes that couldn’t blink, was still there. His own eyes began to grow sluggish, the terror of the nightmare disappearing back into his need for sleep. “I’m … dreaming. You’re sitting there. Really there. By yourself.”

 

Iron Man chuckled. **_“Dreaming. Sure. If you need to call it that.”_**

****

He _did_ need to call it that.

 

_**“I just … wanted to tell you. What I said before … I meant it. Killing someone to stop them from hurting others. I … I would’ve killed your father.”** _

 

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think of _that_ at all.

 

**_“Go back to sleep, Banner. I promise. No more nightmares.”_ **

****

* * *

 

 

He woke up to Iron Man sitting at his table, staring at the notes, still completely separate from him.

 

But Bruce knew that this time he was actually awake.

 

“I think you’re _trying_ to freak me out,” he said wryly, feeling no small amount of satisfaction as the robotic man jumped. Good. Nightmare-giving bastard. “Are you solid right now?”

 

 ** _“Consider me a … ghostly manifestation, if it helps,”_** Iron Man offered slightly, not looking up from the papers. **_“I mean, I’m not a ghost, and I’ve never technically existed, at least not in the human way, so it’s not correct, but if it helps you spaz a little less …”_** Red and gold shoulders shrugged. **_“I told you I didn’t take etiquette classes.”_**

****

“What, Captain America didn’t give you any pointers?” Bruce reached for the fridge, squinting at the calendar help to the freezer-top as he did. Damn. It was his day off.

 

**_“We don’t exactly get along. Besides, he was a born-story. He’s not exactly the go-to guy for answers.”_ **

****

Despite himself, Bruce’s head tilted toward the character. “ _Born_ story?”

 

**_“It means the writer … what’s his name, G. Rogers? That guy. He was born with Captain America already living inside of him. Cap didn’t choose him. He’s … I guess you could say they’re essentially each other. In a way. Or maybe they were just lucky and found each other in Rogers’ mom’s womb. Hell if I know the mechanics of it. It’s complicated.”_ **

****

“Sounds it.” Ignoring the implications (again), Bruce dug through the fridge. The milk was spoiled. Those eggs were undoubtedly bad. Maybe if he showed up for work anyway, Natasha would let him eat something in exchange for cleaning or something. “What are you doing, anyway? You already know the story.”

 ** _“It’s just … different, seeing it like this.”_** Fingers traced over the pages with a reverence that made Bruce swallow. **_“I … fuck, this day and age, I never thought I’d be handwritten.”_** He sounded awed.

 

And Bruce immediately felt guilty.

 

 ** _“You know how they say a story chooses its writer?”_** Iron Man asked, still not looking up.

 

Bruce swallowed again. “Yeah.”

 

 ** _“I chose you because you heard me.”_** It was whispered, hesitant, as if saying it too loud would bring something bad. **_“I asked you what it would be like to experience life through a suit of iron, and you_ answered _me. No one … no one had even acknowledged that I’d spoken before. Sometimes I’d shout it in a writer’s ear, sometimes I’d screams obscenities, just to see if I could get a reaction, but there wouldn’t even be a twitch. No one heard me. And when I saw you, this cute, quiet little writer with all of these gorgeous words who just wanted something to attach them to, I thought to myself ‘why the hell not?’ So I asked you, expecting nothing, and you_ answered me _.”_**

****

How many times had he thought to himself that he wanted a story? How many times had he bemoaned that he had never had one of the infamous dreams, never met his muse, never had an idea that could span outside of a magazine, that he could live in, breathe through? How many times had he wrapped himself in the loneliness of being a writer without a purpose, without a voice to guide his fucking pen?

 

**_(I would have killed your father)_ **

 

How many times had _Iron Man_ wanted the exact same for himself; a writer to help him breathe?

 

 _You’re shit, Banner,_ he told himself. _You’re selfish, useless. You’re absolute shit._

Bruce reached over, yanked out a chair, tearing a bill in half as it skidded across the floor. He sat in it without care, snatching away the pen by the armored hand.

 

Iron Man’s head lifted slowly, the mask’s eyes blank. But Bruce could feel him waiting as if he were still stuck inside of him, right in the center of his chest, where his heart still was and Iron Man’s wasn’t.

 

**_(I would have killed your father)_ **

 

“I’m an ass who doesn’t deserve to tell your story,” he said remorsefully. Swallowed desperately for the third time. “But I would be … hell, fucking _honored_ , if you’d tell it to me now. I hear you. I want to listen.”

 

There was a pause, the faceplate of the armor gleaming as Iron Man regarded him.

 

“… Just forgive me if it fucking sucks,” he added quietly, unable to help himself.

 

The head titled.

 

And then Iron Man reached over, a hesitatingly slow movement, and gently patted his hand. The fingers went right through him; he felt the warmth anyway.

 

**_“Okay. But we have to go ten minutes without saying ‘fuck’, because we really do use it too much. And don’t use many in your writing. What if this gets turned into a movie? Automatic R-fucking rating. And not even for the good kind of fucking.”_ **

****

* * *

 

 

Bit by bit, the story was pulled out, some of it rushed with exuberance, some of it reluctant, sluggish. A lot of it was painful, so much of Iron Man’s existence lost to a questionable darkness.

 

Bruce listened to the words, sucked in the tone of voice, looked up to see the shift in shoulders, the duck of his chin – he could the hurt, every ounce of it, every time it was brought up. It _was_ like drowning in the ocean, trapped in space. The emptiness on par with the worst he had ever felt in his own life, and he scratched every word of it onto the paper. He broke Bruce’s heart.

 

The world thought Iron Man was a villain because Iron Man couldn’t save it, even though he wanted to. Even though he kept trying.

 

He didn’t know how to.

 

They hadn’t reached the end – they would probably never reach the end – when Iron Man went quiet, long enough for Bruce to realize it was an intentional pause and look up.

 

 ** _“Who do you think I am, under the mask?”_** He questioned, as if he were wondering it himself instead of seeking a real answer. **_“It’s a big suit of armor. Take it away, and what am I? Who is the person underneath this?”_**

****

They would never reach the end.

 

* * *

 

 

“I know you like it as it is, but I have to type it up if you want people to _actually_ read it.”

 

**_“Why can’t they just read your words and type it up themselves?”_ **

****

“These are _notes_. There are details I have to add and take out and move around that are scribbled in the margins. See? _I_ have to type it up. Anyone else will fuck it up.”

 

**_“You said fuck.”_ **

****

“It’s been longer than ten minutes. A _lot_ longer. Seriously, move-.”

 

**_“What’s wrong with just having it replicated as-is? I like the notes on the side. And the little squigglies through some of the words. It’s cute.”_ **

****

“Cute doesn’t get published.”

 

**_“Um, yes it does. I’ve seen it.”_ **

****

“I _fucking swear. You’re not even real, how are you blocking the computer screen?”_

**_“I am multi-talented. Oh, add that! I forgot. Did I tell you about the time I fought off Doom while spinning a hula-hoop of fire around my waist? Fire-resistant armor is your friend. We’re going to do more books, right? I forgot a lot of stuff. But this story is awesome. So I was chilling in the Tower, minding my own business-.”_ **

****

“And I want to hear it, I honest-to-God do, but I _need to write this one first.”_

* * *

 

**Two Years Later**

“So Natasha’s worried you’re going to quit.”

 

Bruce grinned at the forced nonchalance in Clint’s voice as he swirled a small porcelain cup of Mint Nightmare, five shots of dark chocolate, two shots espresso, quadruple the whipped cream. The customer was nuts. He’d add sprinkles to the cream.

 

“ _Natasha’_ s worried?” He teased. “Or _you_ are?”

 

“… Someone needs to be around to fix the machine when it goes nuts.”

 

“I don’t know.” He spun the whipped cream in a circle as it fell, imitating a swirl of ice cream for the hell of it. “It’s been four months since we’ve had a plug mishap. I think you might actually have it down.” Carefully, he shook a helping a chocolate sprinkles around the mountain he’d made. This thing was a disaster. Sweet-tooth overload. Customers. Fucking nuts.

 

_“Bruce.”_

_“Clint_. It’s not like I became JK Rowling over night or anything. My book didn’t make me any immediate millions or thrust me into a fame that would justify quitting a job. Calm down. I’m not quitting.”

 

“Natasha’s rereading it,” Clint pointed out, though his pout had died at the reassurance. Again. “She’s recommending it to everyone. People come in here reading it. You can’t tell me you didn’t see the display at the bookstore.”

 

Fighting down his blush, Bruce carefully put the fragile concoction in Clint’s outstretched hand, grinning again as his manager yelped in surprise.

 

“Table two, pretty sure. I think her name’s Skye. Don’t spill it. She looks like she could kill.”

 

The blonde grumbled, walking away, and under his breath, Bruce laughed, turning back to the machine. Break in the customers meant it was time to wipe it down.

 

“Behave,” he chided it gently, smoothing a rag across its coffee-splattered front. The metal beneath gleamed, preening in a way he imagined the Iron Man did when being cleaned. Knowing it was beautiful.

 

 _The Iron Man_ hadn’t made him a millionaire with its publication, no, but it had brought a piece of calm into his life that he hadn’t known he was looking for. Four-hundred and seventy-two pages of Iron Man’s twisted, dark story, bound in crimson hardcover with _Bruce Banner_ engraved along the spines in gold – his copy sat on the bedside table in his slightly-upgraded apartment (an actual bedroom) because the publication had come with a contract. The world, it seemed, was apparently hungry for an anti-hero. The novel was fourth on the Bestseller list. His aunt had stopped suggesting he was suffering depression. Jennifer messaged him constantly about her progress through the gory, almost-hopeless book.

 

He enjoyed running his fingers over his name, across the flawless pages; laughed when he could Iron Man in the back of his mind, comfortable in his own permanent residence as Bruce’s muse, grumbling over the lack of his “adorable” side notes. To get back, Iron Man would mention his interactions with Captain America, bring up how well they were getting along lately, allude to some new player in the field he enjoyed hanging out with. Bruce would stop teasing him, then, because characters. Fictional characters. Existing together in a place where they could talk without their writers. He _did not. Want. To think. About it._

“Bruce.”

 

He jumped, startled, as Natasha materialized at his elbow, reflexively scowling at her which only made the redhead smile. His book was tucked beneath her arm.

 

“There’s a man who wants to speak with you,” she informed him, lifting an eyebrow slyly. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Says he’s a fan and a … colleague. Not bad looking, either. He’s at the other counter. Go. I’ll clean.” And she snagged the rag immediately, hip checking him away from the machine without giving him a chance to protest.

 

“Thanks,” he responded, deadpan. Natasha just laughed, waving him off with a threatening snap of the rag. Experience had taught him to move.

 

The guy at the end of the counter had his head bowed over a copy of _The Iron Man_ , opened in the middle, apparently his own copy and not one Natasha had shoved at him, assuming it wasn’t just for show in meeting the author.

 

“Good part?” Bruce pressed casually as he stopped in front of him, testing. The man didn’t look up, just hummed in response.

 

“Trick question, the whole book is ‘the good part’. I’m actually reading this for, like, the fifth time, trying to see if what I’m looking for is there. So far it’s not. I’m still looking.”

 

Bruce cocked his head, apprehension buzzing low in his belly. “What are you looking for?”

 

“More. Obviously.” The man looked up then, wide brown eyes _buzzing_ with energy locking instantly with his. “Are you Bruce Banner?”

 

“…Yes?” The smile that erupted was beaming.

 

“Fantastic!” A hand shot forward, sticking out expectantly. “Huge fan. I am honestly in-fucking-love with this book. You’re writing more, right? Of course you are, why am I asking, I can _see it._ You’ve got a series contract, don’t you? Same. I’m Tony Stark, by the way. Wow, rude of me, should’ve said that earlier.”

 

Tony _Stark?_ “Tony Stark, writer of _The Incredible Hulk_ , Tony Stark? _That_ Tony Stark?” Bruce demanded, stretching out his own hand. The smile grew impossibly wider.

 

“The only Tony Stark I know who’s written a novel called _The Incredible Hulk_ , fifth on the Bestseller list right behind … you, as it were.” Amusement sparkled wildly in the intently focused eyes. “Can you take a break? I want to talk about this book. You _have_ to talk to me about this book. I’m being killed by written word in every chapter. Please tell me you can take a break and talk me off the edge from this.”

 

“He can take a break!” Natasha and Clint chorused from separate sides of the café. Stark’s eyebrows raised, smile triumphant.

 

“I can take a break,” he repeated uselessly, flushing as he stepped around the counter. The other man whistled lowly when he did.

 

“Damn, you’re _hot_ ,” Stark breathed. “Like … superhot. Was not expecting.”

 

Bruce flushed. In the back of his mind, attention caught, Iron Man chimed in.

 

**_Oh my God. He likes the book and thinks you’re hot. Bonus that he is also hot. Everyone is hot. Ten out of ten. Go for it, big guy. Approval fucking granted._ **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I have, once again, been up too long. Any glaring errors, such as tense-shifts, belong to my sleep-deprived brain. Usual tiny errors are a result of me once again not proof-reading. I apologize for most)
> 
>  
> 
> ** Bruce Banner's "dark, twisted, gory" _The Iron Man_ : Essentially, it's an unforgivingly realistic portrayal of everything Iron Man went through to become Iron Man; blood, torture, mental breakdown, being responsible for and witnessing death, etc. Tony Stark doesn't exist as Tony Stark in Bruce's novel for obvious reasons, so this Iron Man runs along the lines of the "secret identity" Iron Man, so currently in Bruce's books he doesn't have a revealed alter ego. He does pretty much what Tony does in MCU, only darker. There's no Pepper to help him. SHIELD is questionable. He's the honest good guy trying to protect the world for all the right reasons, just in all the very, very wrong ways. It's a series - Bruce still sees Iron Man as more of a villain. He gets to know him better as they go through the books. (The last book of the series is called _The Invincible Iron Man_ , and it's a second collaboration with Tony Stark, featuring the Hulk, and (Steve) G. Rogers, featuring Captain America. It runs as both a novel and a graphic novel.) **
> 
>  
> 
> seriously tempted to write Tony's version of this with the Hulk. I think I would call it "Veins". That's an unfitting title.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Minute to Midnight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198605) by [CrumblingAsh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrumblingAsh/pseuds/CrumblingAsh)




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